


This Place of Wrath and Tears

by golden_feigi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Flower Language, Internal Conflict, M/M, Magic-Users, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, Slow Burn, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2020-05-07 08:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19205206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_feigi/pseuds/golden_feigi
Summary: A story of curses and what it takes to break them; of self-loathing and what it takes to rebuild.OrNines is a florist in the populous town of Detroit. His life takes a complete turn when he sets out into the woods in search of his mother, but finds a lonely beast instead.





	1. To New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beast is lurking in the forests, they say.

Once upon a time, there were two princes who lived in a castle filled with enough riches and gold to flood the oceans. They were always dressed in fine silk and exotic fabrics from head to toe, beads of pearls hanging from their necks as they held their chins up high to greet their lovely guests, who were just as extravagant as they. The brothers were praised for their glorious parties, each of their servants a perfect porcelain doll. The castle was headed by the elder brother, with his observant and cunning blue eyes, magic pulsing at his fingertips. Next to him stood the younger brother, emerald eyes fierce and temper unmatched by most. The brothers would often bicker about seeing the purpose in all things, beautiful or ugly, and everything in between.

One cool evening, after all the grandiose guests had returned to their grandiose homes, the princes indulged themselves in yet another heated quarrel. The elder brother, fed up by the younger’s alarming view of the world and its people, and even himself, cast a wicked spell upon his seething brother. It turned him into something ferocious and ghastly, and all of the servants in the castle to stone. The outside world soon forgot about their existence, their castle surrounded no longer by lush forest and greenery, but by snow and stone. As a parting gift, the elder brother bestowed onto the cursed prince a clock. If he could find someone to truly accept him before the clock struck nine, then the curse would be broken.

If not, then the younger brother would remain a devilish thing for all of time.

The elder brother fled, leaving the younger locked up in the cold, dying castle. And there he would remain for all of his days, until he could find someone willing to give him the sun.

 

* * *

 

“Richard?” a voice calls from the top of the staircase.

“Yes?”

“Amanda says to fetch some bread for supper tonight.”

“Alright.” The floorboards moan from the burden of his weight as he makes it to the door.

“Richard?”

“Yes?” he pauses, slipping on a shoe as he looks up at his brother. Connor leans against the railing from where he’s standing.

“Be safe,” is all Connor says, and he’s off.

The markets of Detroit are always busy, from the noisy groups of empty-headed women to the drunken and unruly men. Richard slips through the gaps, which one would find a difficult task given his size, but he’s done it enough to swiftly make his way through the crowd without so much as a stumble. The bakery is still open, warm, yellow light spilling through the windows as sweet smells waft out the store’s door. Richard is greeted by Simon, one of the store’s owners, with a polite wave of his gentle hand.

The lighting makes Simon’s features appear even softer than usual, and he understands why Markus is so loving with him.

Simon gives Richard a kind smile. “For supper?” he asks, already preparing the order, which he wraps in delicate cloth.

Richard responds with a tip of his head and a half-smile, exchanging money for bread. The rolls are warm even through the layers of cloth, and he swallows the saliva gathering in his mouth.

“Thank you, Simon. Give my thanks to Markus and Carl as well,” he says politely, eyeing one of Carl’s paintings on the wall. Nowadays, the old man can hardly lift a brush. “I hope he recovers quickly.”

Simon’s smile lowers some as he replies, solemn, “As do I.”

Richard leaves the bakery and heads back home, to where Amanda and Connor await. The sun is starting to set, dying the sky a wonderful pink streaked with orange and blue. He stares, almost dazed, and becomes so distracted he’s nearly run over by a horse and its carriage. A man yells at him to get out of the way, sticking his fat head out the carriage window. Richard thins his lips, flushing at his own clumsiness. He grips the bread tighter at his hip and scurries back to the house.

When he arrives home, the strong smell of stew and meat flood the kitchen, and Richard has to press his hand against his stomach to silence it.

“Amanda, Connor, I’m back,” Richard calls, shuffling his shoes off and making his way into their kitchen. His brother is setting the table as their caretaker places the food in neat serving bowls and plates.

Amanda doesn’t spare him a glance. “Wash your hands and sit down,” she orders, turning her heel to fetch something else. Sometimes Richard wishes she would stop treating him and Connor like children. They are already grown adults—“hardly so,” as Amanda had phrased it, but he thought they were independent enough to live on their own by now, without Amanda having to constantly breathe down their necks.

Some would call it a mother protecting her children, Richard would call it a viper preserving her safeguard. They were all she had, after all. And even though Richard knows that she only wants what’s best for them, he still fails to see how Connor had ever called her “mother” when they were younger.

Supper is eaten during relative silence, aside from the occasional clicking of silverware against expensive porcelain. As cold as Amanda is, she prides herself in being diligent at work, and brings home enough money to spend on frivolous things, like roses. Amanda has a beautiful garden in their backyard, mostly of rose bushes, but there were also small ponds here and there, topped with lily pads and croaking frogs.

She spends most of her free time back there, tending to the plants and talking to her roses more so than her own sons.

Richard swallows another spoonful of stew and bread. It weighs heavily in his stomach, and he can’t bring himself to eat more, despite how he was drooling over the thought of food just a few moments ago. Amanda notices this and sets her glass down hard and firm on the wooden table. Connor jolts in his seat, whipping his head up. Richard levels his gaze with hers.

“You seem out of it, Richard,” she says, almost impatiently. Richard swears he can feel the hard beat of his heart in his ears.

“I apologize,” he replies tersely, and continues to shovel food into his mouth.

Amanda pokes at him still. “Is something the matter?”

He can feel Connor staring at him from his left, but chooses to avert his gaze. He stares at his bowl and shakes his head. Amanda purses her lips at that, but lets him go. She tells her sons to clean up the house while she’s gone for a trip, tells them to send a messenger crow if anything happens. Her bags are already packed and sitting near the door. Amanda shoots both men a terse look, then she’s gone.

The door swings shut behind her, and the house is quieter than before. The twins finish cleaning up before heading upstairs. Richard starts to retreat to his room, but Connor slaps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

He turns to face him. “Connor?”

“You’re sure nothing is wrong?” he presses, not pulling his hand away.

Richard bites back a sharp remark. Steel blue settle on warm brown. “I’m sure.”

Connor nods and bids him goodnight. He stares at the empty ceiling of his bedroom, not a crack or chip to be counted. Richard isn’t sure exactly what it is, but he feels as though something is missing in his life. Perhaps it’s the need to move out and start living on his own, to earn money only for himself, and to finally start a family. To settle down, and free himself of his little golden cage. A sigh escapes him as he turns on his side.

That night is a long one.

 

* * *

 

Richard awakens bright and early the next day. Sunlight pokes through his curtains and paints the room with light. He slowly blinks the sleep away, groggily murmuring to himself to never sleep on his stomach again. He feels his spine and knees pop as he stands, making his way towards the bathroom.

By the time he enters the kitchen, he can tell Connor already went to the shop without him. His breakfast sits at the table, still warm. Richard eats alone, then goes to lace his boots up and fix his turtleneck by the mirror. The shop isn’t very far away, but he doesn’t feel like working just yet. He knows he’ll get scolded by Connor when he shows up late, but he can’t help himself. Richard trots to the outskirts of Detroit, sees the scenery unfold in front of him.

Acres of grass-stained hills and lush forests, the vast sky smeared with clouds and dotted with the occasional flock of birds. Rivers and streams dip down into the earth, then rise back up again to chase the horizon. Dandelions litter the ground, and while Amanda thinks of them as nothing but pesky weeds, Richard thinks them beautiful. A sigh escapes his lips, and he allows himself to indulge in this quiet for as long as he is able. When his eyes shut, he feels as if he is anywhere but here. It seems the universe can't allow him even a moment of peace.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Stern,” says a voice from behind. Richard recognizes it immediately and snaps his eyes open. Distaste is sour on his tongue; he doesn’t dare tear his gaze away from the scenery. Footsteps grow closer, and soon there is a body pressing too intimately against his own. Richard is quick to shove him away, and the man stumbles back easily.

“What do you want, Perkins?” he snaps, knitting his brows together in revulsion. It takes all of himself to not lash out at the older man.

Perkins, a well-known hunter in these parts, has never been shy to voice his likes and dislikes. He is a man of no shame, Richard thinks, and a man whose pride and arrogance will lead to his downfall one day.

“You look lovely in a turtleneck, Doll,” Perkins purrs, curling his lip to reveal yellowing teeth. Richard twists his face to show his disgust, choosing to say nothing, and marches right past the man. Perkins snatches his wrist in a vice-like grip. It makes Richard’s skin crawl, and he nearly strikes the man to make him let go.

But he doesn’t, because Amanda won’t let him hear the end of it if he does.

“To the little flower shop, right?” Perkins asks, right by his ear. Revulsion wracks his body in waves, but he steels himself. Richard wiggles his arm free and pulls it close to his chest. He lifts his head up high and stares at Perkins down his nose, grateful for his height. He ensures to rid his face of any emotion, sharp eyes piercing into pools of swamp. Richard has been told many times by Connor how intimidating his resting face can get without his realizing. He hopes to make the best use of it.

It works, unsurprisingly. Perkins is a cowardly man at heart, after all. His wrinkly face twitches as he takes a few steps back.

“Forgot you weren’t a little bitch like Connor,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, but Richard hears it anyway and steps closer. He manages to back Perkins up against a stone wall and tower over him, his broad shoulders blocking the sunlight out and casting a shadow onto Perkins’ pathetic form.

“What was that?” Richard growls, low and deep. His brows draw together even tighter.

He watches how Perkins’ Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and for a second, feels pity for the older man. The feeling is gone before he can really think about it.

Perkins scowls up at him in return, stretching his skin tighter. Richard wonders if that’s why the man looks so dull. “If I had my arrows with me, I would’ve fucking shot you by now,” he fumes, clenching his teeth.

Richard fails to stifle the laugh crawling up his throat. He quickly brings a hand to his face and looks at Perkins almost in wonder.

“You would never. You like me far too much to.” Richard clears his throat, then fixes his sleeve. “Fortunately, I have somewhere important to be. Farewell, for now, Pig.” He gives Perkins a mock-wave before turning his heel and taking off.

Richard does receive a scolding when he walks into the shop nearly half an hour late. He can stomach Connor yelling at him, easy. His older brother sighs, hands on his hips, frown on his face.

“Go clean up the back.”

He does.

Work is the same as usual. Richard used to have a bit of trouble when he was a teenager, not quite understanding how to make a bouquet from the heart so that it’s meaningful. Now, he assorts flowers with ease, like it’s a mechanical act. He snips away any imperfections, puffs up the petals if need be. Richard ties the ribbon around in precise motions, not wasting a single movement. He can make bouquets faster than Connor, something he teases about every now and then.

There isn’t much to think about as he wipes down the countertops of any dirt and fallen petals. Richard doesn’t like getting sidetracked at work, so he tries his best to clear his mind so he can do his job peacefully, without any errors. Connor loads him up with deliveries, shoving the large woven basket into his arms. He slips in a piece of paper with the addresses and whatnot, and shoos Richard out of the shop.

The houses are almost never too far apart, but he doesn’t mind the distance even if they are. He hooks the handle of the basket into the crook of his elbow, reading through the list with his other hand. Richard makes the deliveries, short and sweet, exchanging sweet flowers for dusty money. No customer is ever upset with their order, because the Stern twins complete them perfectly, as they were taught to. Amanda was never afraid to crack the whip on them, even now, as adults.

There is only one more bouquet he needs to deliver as he reaches the bottom of the list. Richard soon finds himself standing at the doors of Manfred’s Bakery, that familiar smell of honey and sugar stuck in the air. Simon stills his sweeping, and those gentle eyes meet his.

“A delivery? For us?” Simon questions, looking confused.

Richard rereads the list. “Yes. Carnations from Markus to you.”

Simon’s face flushes scarlet, and he grips at the broom in hand. The bell above the door chimes before he can trip over his tongue. Markus pokes his head outside, looking a bit embarrassed himself. He shoots Simon a flustered look.

“Aw. I wanted to give them to you myself.” Simon’s cheeks are nearly as red as the carnations, a great contrast to his blond hair. Richard swears he sees tears. Markus laughs softly at the reaction, dual-colored eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Thank you, Nines,” he says, taking the bouquet and—almost shyly—offers them to Simon.

They share a tender moment, and Richard feels as if he’s seeing something he shouldn’t. His heart tugs, somberly, but he isn’t quite so sure as to why. When the couple leans in to kiss, he looks away, at the ground or some building, feeling every bit out of place. Richard wants to leave them be, but they still haven’t paid for the flowers, so he stands there, awkwardly, swaying the empty basket at his hip.

Simon seems to pull himself back together, clearing his throat and giving Markus a little nudge. His skin is still colored like fire. “Markus. The money.”

Markus whips around, and he seems to have genuinely forgotten that Richard was still standing there. His lips pull into another embarrassed smile as he digs into his pocket for the money. Markus pays—a little extra than necessary, Richard notices—and grabs Simon by the elbow to lead him back inside. As Richard turns his back, he overhears Simon hissing, _you made him feel uncomfortable_ , to which Markus replies, _that’s why I paid him extra._ Their bickering voices grow distant as he walks farther away, and yet again something in his chest twists and pulls.

Richard keeps his eyes forward, and he wonders.

He throws the crumpled up list in the bin as soon as he walks inside, setting the basket on the front desk. Oddly, he does not find Connor standing behind it. There are customers galore in the shop, older couples to younger ones; even some school kids still clad in their uniforms, clasping hands, smelling the roses. Richard looks away before he can think about it too much.

Walking into the storage room, he peeks through the shelves of gardening equipment, trying to find his brother. He calls out his name, but doesn’t receive any kind of answer. Richard ventures further into the large storage room, ducking his head and hoping to find Connor crouched down fixing a broken pot or whatnot. He doesn’t find anything of the sort, and his nerves begin to knot together.

Reaching the end of the room, Richard notices the back door is open, and steps outside. To his relief, Connor _is_ crouched down, but not in the way he thought. His older brother is on his knees, trying to coax something out of a bush. The plant rustles, and a whine is drawn from—

“It’s a dog!” Connor gasps, holding the animal up. Its tongue is lolling out of its mouth, panting breathlessly as it gazes up at Richard with innocent eyes.

He can’t help but comment, “It looks like you.”

Connor looks back at the dog and frowns.

“You know we can’t keep it, Connor.”

“I know, but—”

“Let’s get back to work. We have customers to serve, and Amanda wouldn’t want us uselessly loitering around like children.” Richard hears Connor sigh, defeated, before he steps back inside.

The rest of the day is a blur, and the brothers close up the shop before heading home together. The afternoon sun hangs high in the sky, peerless with a lack of clouds. Fall is nearing, and anyone with half a brain would know how Detroit got during the colder seasons. A breeze passes by, ruffling Richard’s hair. He purses his lips as he tries to fix it, Connor a shivering mess at his side.

“Pansy,” he snorts, glancing at Connor from the corner of his eye.

“We can’t all be tall and broad-shouldered, now,” Connor bites back.

Richard hums, then asks, “When did Amanda say she was coming back?”

Connors rubs his arms, trying to create heat. “In two weeks or so.”

“Excellent.”

Connor sends him a look.

“She treats us like pets, Connor,” Richard reminds him, narrowing his eyes a bit. He shoves his chilly hands into his pockets as they walk.

“A dog is just as vicious as its owner,” Connor replies, smoothly.

Richard sends him a pointed look. “You wouldn’t dare hurt a fly.”

“No, but I wouldn’t hesitate to strike a snake if it came too close. I thought you knew me better than that, Nines.”

They turn a corner. “That alias is heavily outdated.”

Connor shrugs. “You like it.”

He isn’t wrong, so Richard stays quiet after that. The rest of the walk home is peaceful and undisturbed between the brothers.

 

* * *

 

It is that very night when all hell breaks loose.

Men on horses stampede into the city of Detroit, metal skin clanking wildly in a rush to warn the people. Their noisiness awakens men and women from their slumber, gingerly poking their heads out of their little doors to see what was going on. Richard and Connor are such people. The lanterns hanging from the horses are blinding to someone half asleep. Richard grips his brother’s shoulder as to not stumble as he squints his bleary eyes.

“A beast!” the men in metal cry. “A beast was sighted in the forests in the far north!” This earns gasps from the crowd, very much awake now as they slap their hands to their mouths, eyes widening in disbelief.

Richard feels his feet turning to ice.

An elderly woman steps forward, warily reaching her hand out to the lead knight. “Do you speak the truth, sir?” Her voice wobbles, more so than her dainty arm.

“It slaughtered one of our men!” the knight booms, face twisting in absolute hatred. “Ate him, head and heart and all!”

Another knight chimes in. “It was a hideous thing! Ugly down to the very bone, we’re sure!”

“Heed yourselves, people of Detroit, for a monster lurks in these parts.”

“What will the king do?” someone shouts from the sea of people.

“Are we safe?”

“Are we protected?”

“What of our children?”

Voices begin to overlap one another, questions spewing the concerns of the villagers like a spitfire. Children cling to their mothers’ skirts like a lifeline, while they, in turn, cling to their husbands. Even though chaos has erupted all around them, the twins cannot bring themselves to notice the ear-splitting cries of disgruntled men and troubled women.

No, they couldn’t hear anything aside from the deafening mantra repeating in their heads: _Amanda is in those forests._

The crowd dies down soon enough after the knights usher people back into their homes. Connor collapses at the staircase, head in his hands as he tries not to pull out his hair. Richard stares into nothingness, and the air between them grows tense. He mulls over each and every idea of what they could do in his head, but he’s dissatisfied with all of them.

Aside from one.

“What if,” Richard starts, breaking that terrible silence, “I go out and find her?”

Connor’s head shoots up like an arrow. Richard wasn’t expecting him to be thrilled with his idea, but he didn’t think it would infuriate his brother to this extent. Connor’s face forms like a thunderstorm. He says nothing at first, then the lightning strikes.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he yells, standing up in such a quick flurry of motion it makes Richard’s head spin. Connor’s face is inches away from his own. “If those men were telling the truth, then there really is a beast out there, Richard. It could _kill_ you!”

“So we let her die?!” Richard yells back, a mountain compared to his older brother.

The unease is evident on Connor’s face, jaw clenching as he thinks of something to say. Finally, after a few beats of heavy silence, he whispers, almost inaudible, “I can’t lose you both.” His voice cracks at the end, and Richard can see the tears starting to pool in his eyes. “Rich, you two are all I have. I can’t—I can’t risk losing you because you wanted to do something heroic.”

Richard’s eye twitches. “It’s not about being ‘heroic,’” he says, voice heavy and stressed. “She—she may have not been the kindest of caretakers, but she took us—she took us in when no one else would. And I’ll be damned if I let her get eaten by some beast knowing I could’ve done _something._ ”

“That’s the problem here, Richard! You _can’t_ do anything! You’re only a florist! Do you honestly expect to win against a beast?!”

“That’s not what I—”

“Enough! Enough.” Connor pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going after her. This conversation is over. Do you understand, Richard?” His tone is final, his face like stone.

Richard wants to hurl him into the sun. “I understand.”

“Go to bed, Nines.” Connor leaves it at that, and trudges back upstairs.

He goes to do the same. Walks calmly into the safe space of his bedroom, then pulls out a satchel from his closet. Richard is deathly quiet as he does so, packing away clothing and a few hunting knives he’s collected throughout the years. He opens the door slowly, slipping out like a snake would to avoid a predator. He makes sure to avoid all the creaky spots on the stairs, trained from living here for so long. In a way, Richard’s glad Amanda’s kept them in this house.

Sneaking into the kitchen, he aimlessly shoves food into his satchel, taking whatever he can find without being too loud. He’s so nervous, his hands a jittery mess. An apple slips from his fingertips and rolls along the floor, thumping dully. Richard’s heart leaps into his throat as he pauses, unmoving, waiting from any kind of disturbance upstairs. He waits for a few more beats, then decides to move again. He plucks the apple off the ground and carefully places it in the satchel, not wanting to take any more risks.

Richard’s boots wait for him at the door. He laces them up as quickly as he can, then swipes the long cloak hanging from the coat rack. Stepping silently through the house, he makes it successfully to the back door. He opens it a smidge, pausing, listening for any noise upstairs, then steps out. His heart is threatening to burst from its cage of bones; sweat dots at his hairline despite the chill of the night.

His legs take him back to the stables, where a single horse dwells. The other was taken by Amanda for her trip, but she owns both. The mare snorts as he approaches, Richard lifting a finger to his lips to silence her. It works, amazingly so. He caresses her snout, mumbling a _good girl_ before unlatching her gate and leading her out. Digging the compass out of his pocket, he turns until the arrow points north. Richard looks the mare in the eyes; he was really going on with this ridiculous plan.

He glances back at the house. Nothing. He can’t turn back now. Richard takes the mare by the reins and guides her far away from the house, until they’re at an empty plaza. Content with his surrounding, Richard hooks a leg around her flank and pushes himself up. His hands are sweaty as they grip the reins; he almost fears they’ll slip out. Richard kicks gently at her side, ushering her to move. She starts at a slow gallop, which gradually turns into a sprint. She kicks up dust as they race down the barren streets, heading for one of the gates that lead outside Detroit.

Richard stops her as they enter the edge of the forest. He checks his compass again, pulling a lantern out of his satchel and lighting it up. Attaching it to the saddle, he whips out a map and knocks his heels into her flank again. He makes sure they walk at a comfortable pace, not going so fast so that he can’t read the map. As the pair trek deeper into the forest, Richard feels his feet turning to ice again. He is nervous, dreadfully nervous, and becomes horrified when the dirt floor is replaced with soft snow.

It’s impossible. There shouldn’t be any snow this early on in the year. Fall has barely even started. But soon snowflakes are falling from the sky, tall evergreens covered in sheets of white. Richard shivers despite himself, veins thrumming with apprehension. He looks around and spots nothing, only snow and bark, not a beast in sight. His nerves calm down, if only slightly, but his guard is up higher than it’s ever been. Richard finds his hand wandering down to the knife strapped to his thigh, fingers twitching at every little sound, ready to strike if it needs be.

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but the further in he goes, the colder it gets. Even the snow starts to fall a little harsher than before. His eyes dart around, looking for Amanda or any other human. There isn’t a house or cave in sight, nowhere a person would keep shelter for the night. He’s too afraid to call out her name, fearing it would attract something horrible. Richard blinks through the heavy snow, the mare giving the occasional snort and releasing puffs of air from her mouth. He searches, desperately, for Amanda, but it’s getting harder and harder to see through the storm. His face feels like ice even as he pulls his hood over his head.

Suddenly, then all at once, the snow relents, and it’s easier to breathe. Richard doesn’t dare question it, just keeps moving forward. If he squints, he can see the outline of a building in the distance not too far from where he is. They trek closer, and Richard’s eyes widen as the building becomes clearer. He’s met with a stone castle, spires touching the heavens and looking all sorts of empty.

“There,” he breathes, unaware of what’s to come. Richard whips the reins down hard, thrumming with newfound adrenaline as the mare steps on her hind legs and neighs. The wind hits his face unforgivingly as they go, but he doesn’t find himself caring at all. All he can think about is the abandoned castle and who might be in it.

They slow down as they begin to approach the castle. He spots blurs of red somewhere, and for a moment his stomach twists, but he realizes they’re only roses, still alive despite all the ice and snow. Richard is in awe, amazed by their resilience. Amanda would love them, no doubt. And if she really is inside the old castle, then she might’ve seen them for sure. Perhaps she was just as amazed as he, unable to draw her gaze away.

Richard ties the horse to a nearby tree, giving her snout a final pat. He trots up the slight stairs to the towering doors, unsure if he should knock or not. He chooses to do so anyway, and isn’t expecting his raps to echo so loudly. Whoever is inside must’ve heard him. They’d have to. Richard waits, one, two beats, before wordlessly pulling the doors open and letting himself inside. He boots click against the tiles as he allows the doors to fall close. Looking around the dark entryway, he squints as he tries to piece the room together.

“Hello?” Richard calls out, voice echoing throughout the empty expanse of the castle. He walks in further, looking around. “Amanda?”

Nothing.

It’s quiet, aside from the hard beat of his heart. His nerves are still on edge, and his last glimmer of hope starts to fade out—

_click_

He snaps his head to the direction of the sound. “Who’s there?” he asks, shakily. His hand clutches the knife at his thigh again, fingers shaking like leaves.

_click click_

There it was again, but in a completely different direction. His eyes dart to follow the sound. A bead of sweat slides down his temple.

It’s utterly silent for a long while, and his heart begins to settle.

But then, from the darkness, comes a voice.

**_“Leave this place.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Markus Manfred works at his father’s bakery along with his lover, Simon, whom he met in his earlier school days. He picked up Carl Manfred’s hobby of painting, choosing to wield a paintbrush in his free time. Markus has even taught Simon how to paint, and sometimes they’re seen making art together instead of bread. He is a good leader with a big heart and has a tendency to voice his opinions on important matters, brave even from the tips of his fingers.


	2. Like Stone Statues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The servants in the castle are odd, a bit stiff with patches of white all over.

The voice came from the top of the grand stairwell, deep and undoubtedly powerful. Every hair on the back of Richard’s neck stands up on end, chills wracking down his spine. Goosebumps litter his shaking arms. He is frozen to the floor, unmoving, eyes blown wide in terror.

 **_“Leave this place!”_ ** booms the thunderous voice again. **_“Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT!”_ **

“I-I can’t—” Richard stammers, tongue weighing in his mouth like a brick. Time moves slowly, like sand in an hourglass, and suddenly there is a hulking figure jumping from the staircase, landing in front of him on all fours. The sound of it echoes like thunder rumbling. Its eyes glow a menacing green, but the rest of it is too dark to make out. The beast’s silhouette seems to resemble a lion as it stalks closer, having Richard step back towards the heavy metal doors. He stumbles, sliding down and landing on the cold tile. He puts his hands up to shield himself on instinct, forgetting completely about the blade strapped to his thigh. His nerves are a knotted mess, heart beating like an anxious drum.

_I’m going to die._

Richard repeats the phrase like a mantra in his head, breaths coming out strangled, back pressed so tightly against the doors he swears it’ll form bruises. He isn’t stupid enough to run, knowing whatever this creature is could easily slaughter him if he tried. The beast draws in on him, and soon Richard sees wings unfolding from its back and spanning out wide, like it was meant to carry the sun. A growl erupts from its throat, low and menacing, bearing broken-glass teeth. He snaps his eyes shut, shaky hands suspended in the air. The beast’s breath is hot as it ghosts his face.

Richard dares to peek his eyes open just a smidge and chokes on a scream when the beast’s mouth falls open, as if to eat him whole. All he can see are those sharp, sharp teeth, before he’s closing his eyes again and bracing himself for what’s to come. His last thought is  _Connor._

“Gavin! Enough of that shit!”

Immediately, the creature snaps its jaws shut, like a bear trap. It whips its head around to where a man is descending the grand stairs, and Richard can’t help but notice how it almost seems like the man is struggling.

“Leave the poor kid the fuck alone. He’s already scared shitless,” the man scolds the beast—Gavin?—again. He all but shoves the creature out of the way, like it was an overgrown house cat. Offering an aged hand, Richard takes it, surprised by how easily he’s lifted to his feet.

The beast, clearly displeased, snarls in objection. **_“Make him fucking leave, or I will.”_ **

Richard’s eyes flicker over to the beast, then back at the old man, unsure of what to do. The old man ignores the threat, despite all the growls and annoyed flaps of wings. With a snap of his rough fingers, the room lights up, soft oranges and yellows glowing from candlelight. Richard blinks to get used to it, mouth ajar in amazement. It is then that he can see just how stunning and glorious the castle is. While not the most polished from the outside, its inside shines like stars, complex architecture forming the many columns and stairwells.

The old man’s face and all of his features are unveiled, odd patches of white at his hairline and cheek. He lifts a bushy eyebrow at Richard.

“What’d you come here for?”

He swallows, keeping his gaze trained on the old man’s face, not wanting to see the beast revealed in the light.

“I-I came to find my…mother.” The word burns his tongue like acid, and suddenly he’s not so sure if any of this was worth it. “I thought she might’ve sought this castle for shelter, but—”

“Your mother,” the old man interrupts. “What does she look like?”

Richard answers, and the old man’s lips draw tight, recognition clear on his wrinkled features. He glances at the beast, whose eyes narrow with disapproval. The old man gives Richard a careful smile.

“There might be someone here who matches your description.”

Richard learns that the old man’s name is Hank, and that the beast is, indeed, called Gavin. Hank leads them upstairs to where Amanda might be, with Gavin trailing behind Richard. He sneaks a quick glance past his shoulder, hoping to get a better idea of the beast, only to find him staring right back. Richard darts his eyes away, swallowing nervously. Gavin could easily take his head off, and he wouldn’t even realize before it was too late.

But Richard was right about him being a lion—at least part of him. Gavin’s wings looked as if they were taken from a dragon in one of the picture books he read with Connor when they were younger. He swears he saw a glimpse of a scorpion’s tail swaying between Gavin’s hind legs, but tries to convince himself it was simply the exhaustion making him see things.

They reach the top of the stairs, meeting rows of small cells aligned at the chipped stone walls. A torch is lit inside the one at the very end, and Hank makes his way over to it. Richard’s palms grow sweaty once more, heart crawling up his throat. They halt, turn, and he has to stop himself from falling to the ground and clutching at the metal bars. Inside is Amanda, sitting on a moth-eaten cot in the corner of her tiny cell. Her gaze is fierce until it lands on him, then it softens, if only slightly.

“Amanda,” Richard breathes, inching his way closer to her.

She eyes him carefully. “Why have you come?”

He blinks, baffled. “To bring you home, of course.”

“And Connor didn’t stop you?” Amanda asks, frowning.

“He did, but I—”

Her face twists into something ugly, something hated. “And here I thought _you_ were the smarter one.” The words sting, and Richard is stricken with confusion. He takes a step back, away from Amanda.

The silence that follows afterward is deafening.

Hank clears his throat, almost awkwardly, eyes jumping back and forth, from Amanda to Richard. They settle on Richard.

“Y’see, she stole a few roses from outside and wouldn’t give them up, so—”

 **_“I had her ass thrown in a pig’s pen,”_ **Gavin finishes, wearing what seems to be a smirk on his monstrous lips.

Richard is taken aback by the lack of sophistication from Gavin. He didn’t think a beast could be so vulgar—didn’t really think a beast could speak at all, really.

“Let’s make a little deal,” Hank suggests. “Trade in something valuable for the roses, and you can keep them and leave.”

Amanda, ever emotionless, lifts a delicate brow. “Does my silence also play into this deal?”

**_“Fucking obviously.”_ **

She thinks for a moment, sharp gears in her head turning as she ponders for an answer.

“Fine,” Amanda says finally. “You can have him.”

Richard isn’t quite so sure who she’s referring to at first, but then it hits him like a wall of ice. She was willing to trade in a bunch of stupid roses for _him_. It’s so ridiculous, Richard nearly pinches himself in hopes this is all a dream. He doesn’t want to believe she’s being serious, but judging from the look of finality so clearly displayed on her features, he knows she isn’t fibbing. Richard feels sick, like he’s about to keel over. It’s a wonder he’s still standing.

Hank blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting such an easy answer. Gavin is oddly quiet. “Are you sure? Isn’t he your son—”

Amanda stands, brushing herself off and readjusting her shawl. “I have another at home. He will have to do,” she says smoothly, not an ounce of remorse in her tone as she stares at Hank, confident. “Besides, this one has become,” she pauses, slides her eyes to settle on Richard’s face of stone, “obsolete. You can have him.”

Richard can hardly breathe.

An emotion of some sort flits through Hank’s face, too quick for anyone to notice. Amanda waits for his response expectantly, hands neatly folded in front of her. Gingerly, he says, “I guess we have a deal, then.” Digging a ring of keys out of his pocket, he unlocks the cell, and Amanda stalks out as if she hadn’t just sold her son off to a _beast_.

Richard stares at her with desperate eyes, feeling all but betrayed. His chest tightens, heart sinking to the floor. Ice crawls up his legs, spreading delicately. He doesn’t dare let his emotions show in front of these two strangers, instead hoping Amanda will have a sudden change of heart and take him home with her. However, that spark of hope is easily put out when she gives a final nod and asks to be walked to the doors.

Hank obliges, smacks a hand on Richard’s shoulder and tells him to stay put. Richard doesn’t think he can walk right even if he wanted to. He stares at the now-empty cell as Hank and Amanda leave for the stairs, Gavin lingering for a moment before he, too, descends the staircase.

Richard doesn’t cry often, so he acknowledges the droplet sliding down his cheek as sweat. The ice spreads from his thighs, eating away at his torso. Despite the fire burning from the torch mounted on the wall, he can’t find himself feeling any warmth at all. He stares for what feels like all of eternity until footsteps interrupt his thinking.

“Are you Richard?” The voice is gentle, soothing; a woman’s.

Slowly, so slowly, he turns to face her. Her inky hair is cut short and close to her face. There is warmth in her eyes as they crinkle while she offers him a smile. Blotches of white cover her neck and some of her jaw. “Hank asked me to take you to your room. Can you follow me, please?” When Richard doesn’t budge, she steps closer, and, very carefully, like he’s a child, takes his wrist in her hand. Her warmth seeps into his skin, and soon he finds himself being led down the tower’s stairs and into one of the castle’s many wings.

They reach a door, and the woman lets go. “My name is Kara,” she tells him, and her eyes are the kindest he’s ever seen on anyone. “I can get you supper, if you’re hungry.”

Richard’s afraid his voice will break if he talks, so he shakes his head. He doesn’t think the food will stay down for long.

Kara nods and gestures to the door. “There should be spare clothes inside. Breakfast will be served in the morning, if you’re feeling it,” she pauses, a small smile on her lips; he thinks her eyes soften even further. “Goodnight then, Richard.”

He drops his cloak to the floor the moment he enters the spare room. Sliding out of his shoes, he collapses on the bed, not caring about how his hair tostles messily. Richard is staring again, up at the fancy ceiling with gold trimmings. His vision blurs as if he’s underwater. Something wet slides down his temple—the room must be terribly hot for him to sweat this much.

Richard falls asleep, tears salty on his skin.

 

 

* * *

 

“Gavin!”

He grunts, walking faster.

“ _Gavin!_ You shithead. Listen to me!” Tina jogs to catch up with him, but it isn’t easy given her condition. Gavin decides to be nice, slows his pace. She swats at his slouching back, folded wings twitching in irritation until he snaps, slapping her arm away.

“Fucking _what._ ”

“That tall guys who’s crashing here for free—what’s his name?” she asks, leaning in close. Her eyes shine with something mischievous, lips quirking up into a devilish grin. Gavin wants to punch her.

“Why do you fuckin’ care?” he snarls.

“Well, he could be ‘the one,’” Tina replies excitedly. She’s wearing that dumbass smile of hers again, Gavin notices. The urge to cuff her increases as they walk together in the yellow light of the hallway.

“Richard.”

“Huh?”

“That’s his name, Chen,” Gavin spits. They turn a corner.

Tina sighs, shoulders slumping. “Ugh. So he’s an old man?”

Gavin barks out an ugly laugh at that. “Nah. He’s a pretty, young bastard. The perfect prick looks like a goddamn painting.”

“Aw, you like him,” Tina swoons, clutching her chest.

“I almost bit his head off.”

She punches his shoulder. “Dick.”

Rubbing his shoulder, he says, “I got one, that’s for fucking sure.”

“Ugh.”

They reach Gavin’s bedroom door. “I’m going the fuck to bed. Get your ass outta here, Chen.” Gavin waves a dismissive hand at her.

He hears her say, “Goodnight, Princess,” as he shuts the door behind him. Gavin tucks his wings away fully, into his back, submerging into his scarred skin like a pebble on water. The horns on his hairline uncurl as they shrink. He retracts them as much as he can until they’re stupid little stubs. Gavin does the same to his nails—hey always remain sharp no matter how much he tries to shorten them.

Changing clothes quickly, he spots a glimpse of his mirror out of his peripheral, and damn him, he flinches. Although it’s already broken—shattered beyond repair, thanks to his fist—and most of the reflective glass is gone, Gavin is still afraid of it. Afraid of the thing that will always stare back at him no matter how many times he tries to blink the image away.

Until he dies, there will always be a too-sharp grin and cat-slit eyes leering at him wherever he goes.

Gavin’s heart weighs heavily in his chest and gets heavier still as the night passes by without him having to close his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He awakens, sure that his face is red and puffy. Richard feels horribly numb, down to his very fingertips. His body weighs like lead, and he hopes to sink into the plush mattress beneath him. Birds chirp sweetly outside one of the windows, sunlight trickling in through the translucent curtains. The room is now a yellow-orange, the sun itself just rising, and Richard sulks in the fact that he woke up far too early.

Not too early, it seems, because there’s a few raps to his door, a muffled voice coming through the wood. “Richard?” Kara, he recognizes. “I’ve brought you breakfast.”

Richard doesn’t want to get up. He wants to remain in bed until he rots. But he can’t, so he doesn’t. Instead he trudges to the door without checking himself in the mirror. He knows he must look like a wreck as he’s met with Kara’s welcoming smile. She doesn’t say anything when she sees how miserable he is, just pushes the cart inside his room. Kara beckons him to sit down as she sets up his food, placing the expensive tray on the expensive desk.

“We made something light, so I hope you finish as much as you can,” she tells him, and his heart tugs at the kindness.

His breakfast consists of toast smeared with some kind of jam, sliced fruit and seeds layered nicely on top. A tall glass of juice looks the most appealing to his dry mouth, so he chugs it desperately. Richard almost chokes, a few drops dribbling down his chin. Kara pats his back while his face flushes. Lowering the glass and wiping his face with a napkin, he quietly thanks her for the meal, and she smiles, of course, and leaves him to eat alone.

Richard has no idea of what he’s supposed to do after. He’s already cleaned up his mess, neatly stacking the plates and such on top of one another. He sits in the plush desk chair, decides to take in his surroundings. The room is very much appealing, theming deep greens and golds. He nearly gets lost in the beauty of it all. Richard spots a small bookcase pushed against the corner, and before he can stop himself, plucks a novel from the shelf. The cover is dusty and worn out, having to wipe away the grime and filth before he can read the title. He hasn’t read this one before, so he decides to flip it open. A cloud of dust pulls a cough from him, but once he fans the crinkled pages out a bit, he settles onto the edge of the bed, and reads.

Richard isn’t sure how long he stays like that, slightly slouched over with a book pressed to his nose. He finishes the first one and pulls out a second until there is a steady stack forming next to him. He stops when his neck begins to cramp, memorizing the page number before shutting the book and rolling his shoulders, satisfied to hear a few pops. It is then when Richard feels unclean, and sighs a breath of relief when he learns there’s a bathroom built in with the room.

He draws a warm bath in the large basin, fogging up the shattered mirror—he pauses.

Shattered?

What used to be a mirror is reduced to almost nothing but its golden frame, leftover shards of glass barely managing to stay together. Richard wonders what had happened here, fingertips ghosting over the cracks that spread out like a spider’s web. He thinks to ask Kara about it later, if she stops by again.

For now, he immerses his tired body into the warmth of the bath, leaning his head back until it hits the edge of the basin. The water is enough to quell the ice for now, but not enough to melt it away.

Richard sighs into the empty, empty bathroom, and wonders.

Once he dresses into the clothes he finds inside the closet, he goes right back to reading until there’s nothing left to read. He always went through books quickly, seeming to fly over the words with ease. Richard places the last book on the pile, then folds in hands into his lap, unsure of what else there is to do. His eyes travel all across the room, searching, searching, until they settle on the wide windows. He starts towards them, and gazes out. His room is too high above the ground.

Richard couldn’t escape this way.

He keeps that little shred of an idea tucked away in his mind, stepping back from the window. He _would_ escape, even if it killed him. Licking his chapped lips, he comes back to rest on the bed once more, and starts to reread.

 

* * *

 

Gavin is dragged out of bed by the strong pull of Tina’s arms.

“Goodmorning, Princess!” she greets, pulling the curtains apart to let the light in. It’s so bright, it’s blinding, and Gavin curses to himself while he squints his eyes, groaning sleepily about how it’s _too damn early for this shit._ Tina wacks him upside the head, tells him to stop whining.

“So,” she starts, and Gavin can already tell it’s gonna be bullshit, “the others and I came up with a plan last night—”

“Fuck no.”

“ _Listen._ It’ll make Richard swoon and fall into your loving arms.”

“I don’t want that,” Gavin barks, stomping over to the bathroom. He doesn’t bother closing the door.

Tina lingers outside, rocking on her heels. “You said he was pretty.”

He slips on his pants. “Doesn’t mean I want him in my bed.”

There’s a pout on her lips he can’t see, but knows is there. “You don’t know until you try,” she insists.

Gavin fists the shirt in his hands. _He wouldn’t want me, now that he’s seen what I am._ He doesn’t dare say it out loud, regardless of how close he was to Tina.

“Gavin,” he hears her say, in that tone he absolutely hates, like she’s about to lecture him. “This could be your only chance. Take it.”

Gavin bites his lip, forgetting about his teeth. He curses, quietly, when blood starts to dribble out. He doesn’t want to fail them. _Fuck,_ he would rather get poached by angry villagers if it meant they could all live happily, in normal bodies, without having to worry about going completely still one day.

If he fails, his servants would turn into stone and he would forever remain an ugly little thing until he keeled over from loneliness. Gavin feels the tears build up, of which he blinks away angrily. He rubs his face raw until they’re gone.

God, he’s such a fucking disaster.

Gavin lumbers out of the bathroom, horns at their usual length and wings already breaking through his skin.

Tina lets the topic fall, instead chooses to say, “Kara and Luther already cooked breakfast. If it gets cold, I’m kicking your ass.”

“Then why don’t you just fucking go without me?” Gavin snarls, hooking a leg up to the chest that lays before his bed and pulling his boots on.

“I may be turning into a dumb rock, but I’m still one of your guards,” she spits back, hands on her hips.

“Don’t say that. You’ve always been dumb.” He grins at her, then stalks out of the room. Tina delivers a swift punch to his shoulder once she falls into step beside him. The dining hall is as loud as it normally is during meals, chatter emitting from every table. Gavin’s pride would never allow him to admit it, but he likes this. Eating together with people, something he never thought twice about when Elijah was still here.

He doesn’t like thinking about his brother much, these days.

Gavin sits where he usually does, with Tina and Chris, at one of the tables close to the windows. Chris, one of the castle’s watchmen, is already seated at the table, digging into his food. He’s wearing short sleeves today, Gavin notices, and can’t help the guilt that overcomes him when he sees his arms. The smooth white marble contrasts greatly with his dark skin, forming in patches all over. He sits down, Tina doing the same, the food already placed in front of them. He reminds himself to thank Kara and Luther for the meal later. Again, something he never did before the curse.

Gavin eats quietly while Tina and Chris make small talk. He goes uninterrupted for the first few bites, but can feel Chris boring holes into his face, so he looks up.

“What?” he asks.

“You know what,” Chris says.

“I’m not gonna woo him.”

“He’s totally gonna woo him,” Tina pitches in, dodging when Gavin swats at her.

“Then why keep him here at all? You’re really that upset about some roses?”

“I didn’t fucking want him here, but Hank—that old bastard—made a dumbass deal with that dumbass woman, and now he’s here,” Gavin all but grumbles, shoving food into his mouth rather unceremoniously.

“Slob,” Tina says, sipping at her cup.

Gavin ignores her, dips his bread in some yolk.

“Can you at least _try_ to befriend him before he runs away?” Chris begs, scraping his plate down clean.

“He’s not gonna run away. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to try it,” Gavin replies.

Chris purses his lips at him, stares at Gavin until he breaks.

“ _Fine!”_ he snarls. “Fucking fine. Are you happy now?”

Both Tina and Chris nod, pleased looks on their faces, especially Tina’s, that bitch.

Gavin stands, snatches his dirty dishes off the table, and goes to put them away. He walks into the kitchen where Luther is, wiping down a counter.

“I heard we have a new guest—” Luther starts, not looking up.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll serenade him later.”

Luther smiles the best he can with the stone restricting movement of some of his cheek. It grows a little wider when Gavin thanks him for breakfast. He tells him to pass his regards onto Kara, as well, and the giant gladly obliges.

Gavin climbs the stairs and heads to the east wing, where Richard is. He decides to hide his wings and retract his horns as much as they could go, doing the same to his nails. Rapping at the door, Gavin waits.

And waits.

Nothing.

He knocks again, wondering if Richard’s still asleep. “Hey—uh, it’s me. Gavin,” he says, awkwardly.

Finally, he hears movement from the other side.

“I don’t care,” is the muffled reply.

Gavin clenches his jaw, already irritated. “Sorry I tried to kill you earlier. It was, um, out of instinct,” he tries, instantly growing red. Fuck him, he’s such a moron, standing here and trying to lead a one-sided conversation. He nervously scratches at his stubble, considers pressing his ear against the door.

“Can I come in?” Gavin asks, a little fed up at the lack of responses.

“No.”

_Motherfu—_

“Why the hell not?” he scoffed.

“Has it ever been brought to your attention that you’re practically keeping me captive here?” Richard says through the door. “Perhaps I should help you relearn some manners.”

Gavin balls his hands into fists, sputters, “ _You_ help _me_ with manners? You broke into my house!”

There’s some rustling inside, like Richard’s stood up. His voice sounds much closer than before.

“I was trying to find Amanda!” he fumes.

“Yeah? Well, look what fucking happened there!” Gavin yells back, unable to keep himself from saying, “Sold off for some pretty little roses. Some ‘mother’ she was.”

It’s quiet on the other side of the door, until footsteps can be heard leading away, presumably to the bed. A vein throbs on the side of Gavin’s neck as he sharply turns and stomps down the hallway, out of the east wing and back to the safe space of his own bedroom.

His friends would turn into statues all because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut—because he couldn’t play it civil when it actually mattered.

He punches a dent into one of the walls, horns and nails growing back to their normal lengths as his wings itch beneath his skin. A frustrated yell bubbles up from his throat, and Gavin, fuck him, he lets it out, voice drifting from human to beast as his screams become bellows.

 

* * *

 

Richard falls, rather ungracefully, onto the bed. He’s ran his fingers through his hair so many times now he doesn’t care if it looks untidy. He feels like he’s going mad, being stored away in this room like he was a prisoner. After that terrible encounter with the beast, he’s more than ready to flee.

He tries to think of a plan to no avail.

Richard thinks so hard, he doesn’t feel himself slowly dozing off.

When he is woken by a knock at his door, the sun had gone down considerably. He jolts up into a sitting position, his hair a mess. Had he really slept for so long?

Richard forgets to answer, and they knock again. He starts to feel a headache forming, pain thrumming dully in his temple.

“Mr. Richard?” comes a young, girly voice. A child. “Kara said I could give you a tour of the castle.”

He stands, then, quickly fixing his hair the best he can without a mirror. When he opens the door, he has to press his chin to his chest to look at his little visitor. A girl, no older than nine, stands before him, a dog panting quietly by her side. She shifts, nervously, and offers him a shy smile. Richard tries not to stare at the white staining parts of her face.

“I’m Alice, and this is Sumo,” she tells him, leaning slightly to pet the Saint Bernard, who sports the same mottled white patches on his fur.

Richard clears his throat. “Hello, Alice, Sumo.” He tries for a half-smile, which noticeably eases Alice because she grows excited.

“Follow me.” He does.

Alice shows him everything the castle has to offer, from the many hallways to the ballroom, even to their extravagant garden in the courtyard. A man is tending to the plants in the snow, looking jumpy and almost erratic.

She points to him. “That’s Ralph. He’s the gardener. Hank says he’s ‘unhinged’ or something, but he’s really nice once you get to know him.” Richard nods, not believing her for a second as he watches Ralph grow red in the face while yelling at a bush.

They circle back to an area where the halls diverge into four different directions.

“These are the castle’s wings,” Alice explains, Sumo sniffing around Richard’s ankles. “You can go into all of them except for the west wing, because Gavin gets really angry if you do.”

At the mention of the beast, Richard blinks. “Why?”

Alice startles at his question, hesitant. She averts her eyes, playing with the hem of her shirt. “Because we’re all cursed,” she says, quietly, as if she didn’t want him to hear at all.

Richard stares down at her, taken aback. “What do you mean by ‘cursed?’” he asks gently, genuinely curious.

Alice shakes her head, and doesn’t say anything else. Richard thinks it must be a sensitive subject. He hums in understanding, and urges her to continue her little tour. She does, a careful smile on her face as she goes, pointing to anything she thinks is important. Which brings him to ask another question.

“Do you know why the mirrors here are all broken?”

Alice flinches, wringing her hands together.

Richard is patient. “You don’t need to tell me if it’s unpleasant to think about.”

“Gavin—um, he doesn’t like the way he looks, so…” she trails off, but the answer is easy to piece together. Richard nods.

“I see. Is Gavin...your boss?”

“He’s our prince.”

Oh. “Oh.”

Sumo barks at something, and they both turn. Alice smiles almost instantly, spine straightening as she holds her arms out.

“Luther!” she runs to him, hugging his legs. The man is huge, with shoulders built strong like a bull’s. He’s taller than Richard, that much he can see. Sumo trots over to him as well, and he bends down to pet him.

“It’s time for bed, Alice,” Luther tells her, rising to his full height. “Kara is already in bed.” She nods, running down the hallway with Sumo struggling to keep up at her side. Deep brown meet icy blue. Luther offers a slight smile. “I’ve been told your name is Richard. Please, feel free to wander around the castle a little longer if you’d like. Just avoid—”

“The west wing,” Richard finishes. “Yes, thank you.”

Luther gives a final nod, then goes to follow Alice. Richard watches the hulking figure leave before heading straight for the one place he wasn’t allowed to go. The sun had gone down completely, the moon full as it hangs in the sky. He enters the west wing, considerably darker than the rest of the castle. It’s colder, too, a slight chill in the air. The room is a mess, overturned furniture destroyed and in pieces. Richard passes a painting on the wall of a man with tanned skinned and eyes like emeralds. The painting itself is ripped to shreds, claw marks cutting the handsome man’s face in half.

He traces the torn painting with careful fingers. Was this Gavin before he was cursed? He’s left to wonder until he’s drawn away from the portrait by a soft light. By the large, open windows is a clock enclosed in a glass lid. It glows a soft blue, glowing brighter as Richard leans down to inspect it. He sees now that it's more of a pocket watch, brilliant gold instead of typical grey. The thin, black hour hand sits on the three, at rest, as the minute hand hardly shifts, unhurried. He’s most curious than ever, now. Questions fly through his head while he goes to remove the lid, forgetting about boundaries.

The second his fingertips touch the glass, a sound like thunder is heard from behind. The beast, in all its glory, flies across the floor and lands before him. The room trembles as he lands, and so does Richard, who whips his arm back as if burned.

 **_“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH IT!”_ **the monster roars, all spit and teeth. He circles the round table that hosts the clock, as if trying to protect it.

Richard’s heart leaps to his throat. His knees shake. “I-I’m sorry—”

**_“GET OUT OF HERE! GET OUT!”_ **

That’s all Richard needs to have him stumbling back, sprinting, sprinting out of the west wing and down the great staircase. A man and woman wait for him at the bottom, faces drawn tight with concern. They try to stop him, _begging_ him to stay, but he’s snatching his cloak from the coat rack and flying out the heavy metal doors. He finds his horse still tied to the tree, and rides off into the woods just as the castle doors slam open.

Richard doesn’t dare look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Connor Stern is the older twin brother of Nines. He is fond of dogs and wishes to make Amanda proud, even if she isn’t the most pleasant person to be around. He cares for them both, as insufferable as they may be. Being good friends with Markus and Simon, the florist often receives complementary treats whenever he delivers flowers to their bakery. Connor often worries about Nines, feels as if he isn’t satisfied with something. He hopes his brother finds whatever he’s searching for, wherever it may be.


	3. To Rebuild, Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The library is a quiet place.

The sky above him is bleak, stars veiled by a thick, gray smog with only the moon’s gentle face to guide him as he flees deeper into the forest. His cloak flutters behind him as if it were a flag dipped in black paint. Richard’s eyes are wild and filled with fear, too afraid to look back to see if anyone was following him—to see if that repulsive, crude little beast was chasing him as if he were its prey.

In the back of his mind, a quiet voice asks, _where would you go?_ Because surely Amanda would not want him, and if he was unwanted by Amanda, then he would no longer have a place to call home. No place to return to, like he was an orphan all over again, all those years ago. This time, without the company of his brother to keep him sane.

Richard is so deep in thought he doesn’t pick up on the blurs of gray and black that kick up soft snow as they run. The blurs are snarling and furry, maws pulled back to reveal sharp canines. The wolf pack flanks him on both sides, figures obscured by the trees. Richard’s mare lets out a fearful whinny and picks up speed. He clutches even tighter at the reins, knuckles turning white as bone.

The winter winds are unforgiving as they sting his face. Though he squints, he can hardly see past all the ice and show. The terrain gradually becomes uneven, and soon Richard finds himself having difficulty in controlling the frightened mare. He tries to steer her left, unknowing of the thick tree root ensconced by the snow. In her stumble, Richard is flung from her back, and they tumble like stones.

Quickly, he rushes to her, uncaring of the melting snow dripping down his spine. However, the mare is too overwhelmed to settle down, and all hope leaves him when she flees in the other direction. The wolves seem to be in disarray, unsure of which meal to chase after. They settle on Richard, who is much, much slower than the mare. An easy catch.

He can feel the imaginary ice spreading even further, across the expanse of his stomach and over his chest. His fingertips are numb even as he flexes them, running, running through the forlorn forest where he is surely to become wolf fodder. Richard puts his long legs and excellent stamina to use, hurling himself over fallen trees and jagged rocks. The perpetual hard beat of his heart is all he can hear as tries to escape death.

Richard’s breaths become deep and haggard. They leave his mouth like smoke. He knows he can’t go on like this forever, has to think of a plan before the wolves attack when he finally keels over from exhaustion. But his mind is too foggy, too swamped with fear of his inevitable mortality.

He reaches a dead end all too soon, hands coming to palm at the wizened and uplifted wall of earth. The wolves jump down to surround him, snarling and bearing their terrible teeth. It feels all too familiar, but instead of pressing against metal, Richard lets his body squeeze into the dirt. His fingers grasp at the hunting knife strapped snugly to his thigh. They certainly do not shake as he pulls the blade out of its protective sheath.

It happens so fast, Richard can barely think. One of the wolves lunge at him, to which he successfully dodges and strikes down. He very well may die here, but he’ll raise hell before death takes him. Its blood stains the snow a rich scarlet. The pack members take him on all at once, teeth sinking into skin and muscle.

Richard shoves them off to the best of his abilities as they tear through his cloak. Red flows from his wounds like a fountain, but still he chooses to fight. Human and wolf blood mix as the skirmish carries on, Richard scuffling and stumbling in the snow while he swings his knife. A wolf pounces at him to his right. He delivers a sharp kick to its stomach, sends it flying across the world of white.

His vision swims the longer he fights, blood dripping from him like a loose faucet. Richard can no longer keep up with the wild things, reactions too shoddy and delayed. At some point he drops the knife, his grip too weak to hold it properly. He sways before dropping to the ground as well. Through bleary eyes can he see the remaining pack members drawing in on him, vicious and hungry, drool dripping from their maws.

Richard’s eyelids droop, due to fatigue or blood loss, he isn’t sure, and slowly, he lets them fall shut. It’s an odd feeling. Dying. He hopes to bleed out before the wolves can sink their teeth into him so he doesn’t have to feel himself being torn apart. Sweat escapes his eyes—another odd thing he notices. It’s far too cold to be sweating like this, his face damp in what he thinks isn’t tears.

_Connor. I’m so sorry, Connor._

He didn’t listen to his older brother, and it had cost him dearly.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes, repeating the good and the bad and the moments in between. Dying is only darkness and a deafening quiet. He has never felt colder as he does right now, at this very moment. Richard waits for death to take him, but it seems to be taking its time. He should’ve been gone moments ago.

Curiously, he pries his exhausted eyes open. They weigh like bricks, but he does so nonetheless and looks around, too tired to even move his head. He is nothing but confused when he sees a scorpion tail hovering menacingly above a lion’s back, shaking with something like rage and surely filled with poison.

The beast lets out that familiar roar that sounds so much like thunder rumbling. It makes the ground shiver and the wolves cower back with their ears pressed to their skulls. The beast shows them no mercy, tearing into fur and breaking bones. It is much larger than any wolf, and therefore has no problems in slaughtering them. The once pure and snowy ground is now a cesspool for wolf corpses and irony blood.

Richard shivers at the sight of it all.

The beast turns around, stalking towards the bloodied mess of a man half buried in snow. The last thing Richard sees is the creature’s gleaming gemstone eyes before he is enveloped by a welcoming darkness.

 

* * *

 

Gavin shifts into his more human form, limbs shaking as his arms hover over Richard’s body, unsure of what to do. He decides to rip apart the man’s already ruined cloak and tends to his wounds the best he can. The blood seeps through the dark fabric, and Gavin has to steel himself at the unwelcoming fear of this man actually dying in his care.

Richard’s face is nearly as pale as the snow when Gavin takes him into his arms. He certainly isn’t light, all muscle and long legs. Richard’s blood soaks into Gavin’s clothes as he presses him tight against his smaller build, not wanting to accidentally drop him while he’s in the air. Gavin glares at the wolf corpses one last time, then unfolds his wings and takes to the sky.

They fly high above the trees, the sight of which Gavin would normally appreciate if he wasn’t in such a rush. Tina had yelled at him to find Richard, who very easily could have gotten eaten by wolves at this hour. Hell, he almost did, had Gavin not arrived in time.

“Perfect prick owes me one,” he mutters bitterly to himself. Richard’s blood is sticky and uncomfortable against his skin. Gavin tries to ignore it as they land in front of the castle’s open doors, yellow light pouring out like spilled gold. His servants crowd around the entrance, some on the steps, as he struggles to carry Richard.

Luther sees him stumbling—thank god—and takes the man into his own arms. Gavin feels weak and a little awkward as he watches Luther quickly clamber up the stairs to tend to Richard. If he were to die, Gavin certainly wouldn’t be digging his grave. Not for a stranger with a sharp tongue and brooding eyes.

He could die, and Gavin would go about his day like any other.

Glaring at his bloodied shirt and arms, he stomps up the stairs with unnecessary strength, ignores the looks from Tina and Chris, and keeps his brows tucked together until he reaches his bedroom. He never liked the smell of blood, too potent for his sensitive nose. Gavin isn’t sorry in the slightest as he slams the door shut, rattling it in its frame, anger blossoming out of nowhere.

He thinks about his nagging brother, and gets even angrier. Something ugly settles in his chest as he all but tears off his shirt and hurls it to the floor.

“Fuck! I can’t believe I fucking—” Hands come up to tug at his hair. He breathes in sharply through his nose, tries to calm himself down before he explodes. “Goddammit. _Goddammit,_ I should’ve let him die.”

There was nothing to gain from saving Richard’s life, and yet he still did.

For whatever reason, he lost his temper and took it out on some poor wolves who were simply hungry during the harsh winter. He tore them to inconceivable shreds, just like he did to that human soldier who tried to hurt Tina.

Gavin is more beastly than any wild animal out there.

He knows this, drills it into his skull every morning as soon as he’s reminded of his horns. Everyone was so hopeful that Richard would be the one to finally bring him happiness only a lover could, but Gavin can only scoff at the idea. He can’t give Richard anything good, anything of worth. Sure, he had enough riches to fill the seven seas, but he doubted Richard would want even a gold coin, especially if it came from him.

Gavin had a thin sliver of hope when Richard first broke in. He wasn’t dressed in ridiculous metal armor, nor did he hold a torch or pitchfork in his hand. He had thought, foolishly, that _maybe,_ if he played his cards right, he could make Richard fall in love with him.

The second Gavin saw his face in the light, that sliver of hope was gone. For how could anyone who looked like _that_ ever love someone like him? Richard was admittedly handsome, strong eyes and an even stronger build. Gavin saw how he fended for himself against a pack of _wolves,_ knew for certain the man wasn’t weak after that. And he would be lying if he said Richard’s brute strength didn’t intimidate him.

Gavin stood there, shirtless and stained with blood that didn’t belong to him, doubt festering like a disease in his chest.

He hates it. Hates how emotional he gets when faced with the smallest inconvenience, how easily it is for him to become frustrated—god, he wants to _scream_ , wants to throttle something, maybe himself, because fuck him; he can’t stand himself sometimes.

The tears are hot behind Gavin’s eyes, and he clenches his teeth so tight he fears they might shatter. He tries to control his breathing, digging his nails into the meat of his hands until they draw blood. Gavin lets the dull pain distract him from the war raging inside his head. He curses, watching little beads of red forever stain the expensive carpet.

The sigh that escapes him is so tired and broken he wants to believe it didn’t come from him.

Gavin recollects himself, strides over to the bathroom to retrieve a damp rag to finally get the blood off of him. He scrubs himself a little too hard in front of the sink, his skin growing pink and irritated. There are only specks of blood along his neck and part of his jaw, but he runs the rag over his entire face, tries to wipe away some of the filth that coats his entire being.

Gavin drinks in the lingering warmth of the rag pressing against his skin, and leaves it there so he doesn’t have to feel himself crying.

He’s always been pathetic.

 

* * *

 

Richard stirs, his body aching and heavy, and tries to open his eyes. He panics for a brief moment because he is somewhere soft, not like snow, but like a bed. A woman’s face is hovering inches away from his own once he fully awakens. His first instinct is to defend himself, but he’s too weak to lift his arm.

“You really are handsome,” the woman says, a hand to her chin like she was inspecting him. The white patches confirm she’s a servant, and Richard relaxes a bit. He swallows, though unpleasantly since his throat is so dry. He wants to ask for water, but the words refuse to come out

The woman somehow reads his mind, because she helps him sit up and brings a cup to his lips. Richard drinks its contents greedily, surprised to taste not water, but tea. Some of it spills from the corners of his mouth. The woman snorts at this, and wipes his face with her hand. Her hair is the first thing he notices about her. Shiny and dark like obsidian. Richard clears his throat and gapes at the bandages that wrap around him all over; his arms, torso, and though covered by the blankets, he can tell his legs are wrapped as well.

“I patched you up pretty well, didn’t I?” the woman says, a small grin gracing her features. “I’m Tina. Is your name really something stuffy like ‘Richard’ or were you lying?”

In his silence, she finds her answer.

“Ugh. Gotta find you a nickname, because there’s no way I’m calling you that.” She wrinkles her nose.

Richard stares, eyes hard, unsure of what to make of her.

“No need to glare at me like that.”

“I apologize,” he says roughly, not sounding apologetic at all.

Tina has the audacity to _smile_ at him.

“Gavin saved you,” she says quietly, losing the smile. Tina looks down into her lap. “Even though I told him to, I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

At that, Richard’s eyebrows touch his hairline.

“You don’t need to make him sound like a hero when he isn’t one,” he says, not believing her for a second.

Tina shrugs, meeting his gaze. “Don’t believe me if you don’t want to,” she pauses to grin, “but he carried you in his arms like you were a damsel in distress.”

Richard glares at her.

“I think this is the start of something brilliant.”

“Surely, you must be joking.”

“Gavin’s a pretty good guy once you get to know him.” Tina leans in and gives him a suggestive look. He curls his lips back as if to gag.

“How is that of any importance to me?”

“Tips for the future,” she says easily, not missing a beat. “He thinks your face is nice, by the way.”

Richard crinkles his nose. “It’s beyond me how a beast would know what’s attractive or not.”

Tina’s eyes sharpen considerably. He returns the look. “He’s not an animal.”

“I would think otherwise.”

Her features soften, and she leans back into her chair with her arms folded. “He wouldn’t have flown you all the way here if he was one.”

The memory strikes him like an arrow. Richard recalls little snippets of the beast protecting him, wings spanned out wide to look all the more intimidating. He doubts the beast gave him any wounds. Apparently there is something telling in his features as he considers this, because Tina offers another toothy grin.

“See? He isn’t so bad.”

Richard licks his lips. “Where is he now, then?”

Tina looks a bit smug when she answers. “Well, it’s long past midnight, so probably asleep.”

“I see.”

She drums her fingers against her arm, as if considering something. After a short moment of silence, she says, “I really do hope you choose to stay, Richard.”

There is no deceit in her words, that much he can tell. Tina looks at him with genuine eyes that hold something akin to hope. He isn’t sure why, but all of the servants he’s met so far give him the same look.

“Why?” Richard asks, but not unkindly.

She smiles again, but it’s smaller, less playful. Somber, even. “Gavin’s running out of time, and I think you two would make a good pair.”

He doesn’t question her ambiguity, only gives a curt nod. Tina doesn’t say anything after that, only returns the gesture and leaves the room. Richard relaxes against the plush pillows, suddenly exhausted even after just waking up.

Sleep is quick to take him.

When he wakes up in the morning, there are no knocks at his door. Birds chirp happily outside his window. He sits up, a dull ache shooting up his spine as he goes. Richard eyes the plate sitting on his bedside table, stomach grumbling hungrily. He licks the plate clean, then leans back into the pillows, content. Taking a moment to relish in the fact that he’s alive, Richard inhales deeply through his nose, pain twinging somewhere in his ribs as he does so.

He thinks he’s healed enough to walk, so he scoots over the edge of the bed and swings his legs free. As expected, they are wrapped in bandages. Gripping the edge of the bedside table for support, Richard attempts to stand on shaky legs. Pain is quick to shoot up his calves, but it isn’t unbearable.

He leans on the furniture to anchor him while making it to the door, legs burning with every step. The doorknob twists in short warning before someone walks in.

“You shouldn’t be up like that,” Kara says, but makes no move to escort him back to the bed.

“It’s unbearable in here,” he lies. The mattress and pillows are quite comfortable, and the room is never stuffy.

“I need to redress your bandages.”

He’s in no position to decline. She helps him sit on the desk chair near the door. His body is grateful to be at rest. Kara brought with her a water basin, a rag, and other necessities. She unravels the bandages, wipes the wound down, lathers some salve that smells sharply of mint, and wraps it tight, but not too tight. Snug enough to heal. Kara does that to all of his wounds, and Richard bites back a sigh of relief. The fresh bandages feel good against his skin.

He thanks her politely once she’s finished.

“Is there anything I can get you?” she asks, cleaning up the supplies. Richard starts to think Kara is one of the only normal people living in this castle.

“Some books would be nice,” he replies.

She laughs a little. “I noticed how you read through all the ones in here.” Richard glances behind him. All the books are back on the shelf in their usual neat rows. “I’ll get you some more,” she promises, coming to a stand.

After convincing her he’s more than capable of making the small distance back to the bed, Kara leaves. He gets himself settled into bed, snug against plush silk. When Kara comes back with an armful of books, he’s asleep.

 

* * *

 

His wounds are quick to heal. By the second week, he’s on his feet again, bruises yellow and tender. Richard reads through every book Kara gives him, hunched over for hours. There isn’t much to do in the cursed palace, and most of his days are the same.

Until one day, Tina asks if he wants to eat dinner with them.

“You can finally meet everyone,” was her reasoning, and even though Richard would do almost anything to get out of the stuffy room, he wasn’t so sure about spending dinner with them. With the beast.

Tina squints at his hesitance, gaze like a hawk that has Richard standing on end. He’s too stubborn to tear his gaze away, so they look each other down for a moment before Tina finally relents.

“You might go crazy if you stay here too long.”

If she was referring to the room or the castle itself, he didn’t know.

Richard says nothing, thumbing one of the corners of the book he was reading. Tina crosses her arms, waiting, waiting, until she says, “I’ll take you to the library if you come to dinner.”

He freezes at that. A library always sounded promising, and he guessed that it would be spacious regarding the size of the castle. Richard purses his lips, thinking.

“Alright.”

Tina all but drags him down to the eating hall, large and appealing to the eye. The tables are round and covered in white cloth, candles as a centerpiece. Richard is sat down in an expensive-looking chair, candlelight dying his face a gentle yellow.

Tina grins, content when he places his hands in his lap and straightens out his spine.

“I promise the food won’t disappoint.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Hank comes to sit at the same table as him, Sumo panting quietly at his side. He juts out his chin at Richard in greeting, to which he nods in return.

“Heard you fought a pack of wolves,” Hank says, shifting in his seat.

“Yes.”

“You a soldier back at home?”

“A florist.”

This draws a snort from Hank. Richard isn’t so sure why.

“You? Playing with flowers?” The old man almost seems amused.

“I don’t play with them,” Richard corrects. He took his job seriously, something he prides himself in.

Hank leans back. “Huh. Didn’t think you were the type.”

Richard tilts his head at that, but keeps quiet.

The other tables are slowly filled by other castle servants. Richard recognizes Alice and Ralph, the latter chattering excitedly to the little girl. Dinner is served in many courses, from soups to breads to meat platters. He isn’t sure how they get their hands on such ingredients when they’re so isolated and hidden within a forest, but he eats what he’s given without further question.

Throughout the meal, Richard finds his eyes darting around the room, searching for any signs of the beast. He’s nowhere to be found, even when the meal draws to a close.

Richard forgets about it soon after.

As he thanks Alice and Luther for the food, Richard walks over to where Tina is, talking with a man he hasn’t met before.

“You promised to take me to the library,” Richard says when he approaches.

Tina and her friend share a look. “Let me clean up here first. I’ll meet you by the staircase.” She wears a mischievous little grin, the man next to her pressing his lips together tightly, almost in disapproval.

“Tina,” he warns.

“Oh, this is Chris, by the way.” She points to her friend, who offers Richard a stiff wave.

Richard nods. “I’ll be waiting, then.” He walks out and heads to the grandiose staircase, leaning slightly against the railing as he waits. He only looks up when he hears footsteps approaching, but something about them is off. They were heavy and very much unlike Tina’s.

The first thing he notices is green eyes pulled down into a scowl, then a faint scar running across olive skin. They stare at each other for a moment, tense and uncomfortable. Richard takes in the S-shaped horns that grow from the man’s forehead, and that’s all it takes for him to take a cautious step back.

“Fuck,” the beast says, eyes flickering away. “That bitch.”

Richard is too stiff to move, brows tucking together as he studies the beast, now in a more human version of himself. Stubble graces his jawline, and Richard bites back a smirk when he notices he’s much taller than the wretched thing. He grips the railing hard.

“What’re you doing here?” the beast snaps, shoving his hands into his pockets. His posture is terrible.

Richard gives him a hard stare, then faces the other way. He doesn’t know what’s taking Tina so long, and he’s seconds away from leaving to retreat to his room. The beast lets out a frustrated sound and stomps closer, ignoring the way Richard glares at him in warning.

“Answer me, perfect prick.” The beast sneers, leaning in to get closer to Richard. He keeps his face stubbornly turned away, pretending not to notice him. This angers the beast even further.

“You know,” he starts, and Richard flicks his gaze over at the scabby grin that grows on his face, “if I’m letting you stay in my home, the least you can do is answer my goddamn question.”

Richard turns to finally face him, looming over the beast. He doesn’t budge, looking up at him through wild eyes, as if to say _I dare you._

“What I choose to do is none of your concern,” Richard tells him smoothly.

Gavin barks out an ugly laugh. “Bastard.”

“Oh, Richard!”

They both turn at the sound of Tina’s voice. She’s wearing that sly grin again, eyes darting between the two of them.

“Sorry,” she says, bringing her arms behind her back and batting her lashes at them, “something just came up, so I can’t take you to the library.”

Gavin’s face twists into something unsightly.

“Don’t you fucking—”

“But! Gavin here can.” Tina gestures to the beast, grinning even wider at Richard.

Richard purses his lips. “I believe I’ll be able to find the library on my own,” he tells her.

Tina tilts her head. “The last time you walked around on your own, you almost became dinner for some overgrown mutts. Gavin can take you.” There’s finality in her tone, and the beast is quicker to object than Richard.

“I know for a _fact_ that you don’t have shit to do, Tina!” The beast bares his teeth, canines long and sharp. She merely raises a dismissive hand and walks the other way, shooting the beast a cheeky wink over her shoulder.

Now they are alone, man and beast, commoner and prince.

Richard ignores the beast clenching and unclenching his fists, practically hears his teeth grinding inside his mouth. Richard stays quiet, though his patience is running thin. He keeps his face neutral when he speaks up.

“Well?”

The beast flinches, then whips around to face him, a scowl etched into his face. “What?” he snarls.

“Miss Tina said you are to take me to the library.”

“‘Miss Tina,’” the creature mocks, an ugly grin pulling at his lips. It’s quick to fall. “Fuckin’ fine.” He steps past Richard, boots clambering as he goes.

Richard is still standing at the railing when the beast yells at him to follow, not turning around. Richard walks behind him at a safe distance, studying the beast’s small figure. His back isn’t hunched over anymore, now tall and straight, like he’s carrying his pride on his shoulders.

They don’t exchange any words as they walk to the library, and Richard prefers it over useless smalltalk. The beast stops in front of two large doors, golden handles just as curved and intricate as the rest of the castle. He gestures to the door with a dramatic wave of his hands.

“Knock yourself out,” the beast says, then steps by him to leave.

“You’re not going to show me around?” Richard asks, snatching the beast’s wrist despite himself. He’s quick to let go, as if too much contact with the thing would burn him.

The beast whips his arm back the moment Richard lets go, cradles it against his chest. “Fuck no. Figure it out yourself, it’s a goddamn library.”

“Is there a limit to how many books I can take?”

“I told you to knock yourself out, didn’t I?”

“That would hinder my ability to read.”

The beast glares at him, curling his lip a little. “Prick.”

“Savage,” Richard bites back.

The beast whirls around to face him again, comes a few steps closer. “Asshole.”

“Half-wit.”

Richard stands his ground once they’re nearly chest to chest, smirks a little when the beast has to crane his neck to look at him.

“You need me to hold your goddamn hand while I give you a tour, perfect prick?” The beast wears his ugly little grin again. It’s unsettling to Richard.

“Using a childish nickname to address me only proves that _you’re_ the one in need of hand holding.” Richard flicks his eyes up and down the beast’s figure, takes pleasure in the way he squirms. “It seems that your short stature is suitable for it as well.”

The beast’s face flushes crimson, almost complementing the green of his eyes. “You bas—”

“Have a good evening,” Richard says, interrupting him, and swings the library doors open. He leaves the beast to sputter and fume outside, interest piquing at the plethora of tall bookcases aligned in neat rows in the grand expanse of the room.

The windows are large, letting in plenty of orange light that spills into the room. Richard tilts his head back to admire the high, domed ceiling. It was made of glass as well, and he doesn’t doubt that the stars would shine down against the floor once night fell.

The library was both overwhelming and wonderful, Richard not knowing where to start. He wanders off to a random section, scanning over book titles as he strolls down at a slow pace. Hooking a finger over the edge of a novel’s spine, Richard eases it out from where it’s snuggly wedged between two other texts.

He dusts the cover off with his palm, flipping it open to read the first few sentences. Then, once satisfied with the beginning, he tucks it under his arm and continues his strolling. By the time Richard settles down at one of the tables, the moon had risen. He flicks on a light and seats himself on the comfortable chair.

Two piles of books sit to his right, towering higher than his head. Richard shifts until he’s comfortable, then plucks the first book off the first pile.

He turns to the first page, and reads.

 

* * *

 

Richard visits the library frequently, long after his wounds have fully healed. It’s become his favorite pastime, though he would never admit it to anyone, nor let it show. At least on his face. The library was quiet, and always empty. There was nobody to interrupt or distract him from his reading, and he enjoyed the solitary.

It was a good way to clear his mind from everything.

Rarely would his thoughts ever drift to his life back at Detroit, and whenever they did, he’d squeeze his eyes shut and recollect himself; sit up a little straighter, his focus a bit more intense on the novel’s yellowed pages, but distant all the same.

(He craved his brother’s presence the most at times like those. Misses the warmth of his hazel eyes and the anchoring hand on his shoulder that was never rough, only comforting. Richard misses Connor dearly, and wishes he’d listened to him before sneaking out on horseback, unbeknownst to his own fate.)

Most days are good days, though. Sometimes Alice would come in with Sumo at her side and sit with him to chatter about her day, Richard humming and adding in his own short comments at the right times. He had read to her, once. A short fairy tale he was familiar with from his own childhood. Richard hadn’t spoken in silly voices like some parents would when they told tales to their children. He stuck with his normal voice throughout all the narration and dialogue, but Alice didn’t seem to care, too enthralled to hear what would happen next.

Richard couldn’t say he was displeased staying at the castle, despite everything.

It’s early the next morning when he enters the library, the sun still hiding behind its hill. He woke up oddly energized, and decided to hunt for a few more books to add to his reading list. Richard hardly has a chance to gander at the sight of it all like he usually does before he abruptly stops in his tracks, ice spiking up his legs.

The beast is seated at one of the green-cushioned couches, an open book in his hands. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, the beast says, “The fuck?”

Richard’s lip twitches almost unnoticeably. “What is it?”

The beast grimaces— _grimaces_. “You—you’re not normally here this early,” he replies, looking all sorts of awkward.

Richard chooses to ignore him. He wouldn’t let this crude little thing ruin his one source of catharsis. He makes sure to gaze at the books on the other side of the library, far away from the beast. They don’t suit his tastes at all, but it’s better than dealing with _him._

Richard boredly flips through the pages of a random book as if to stall. It wasn’t like him to do such a thing. Normally, someone like the beast would never derail him from doing what he pleases, but there’s something about him that has Richard confounded.

He fights back the urge to look behind him, to sneak a little glance over at the beast who was surely eyeing him the entire time. Richard keeps his posture punctilious, feigning nonchalance.

“What’s that one about?”

Richard has to steel himself before he reacts unseemly. He keeps his face stony, tries not to glower. The beast has somehow managed to sneak over without being heard, face leaned forward to peer at the book in Richard’s hands. They aren’t touching, but Richard can feel the heat radiating off the beast.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

The beast stares up at him when he takes too long to answer. His brow is raised, waiting.

Richard wants nothing more than to turn his heel and leave, maybe eat breakfast, but the brute is too close for him to flee. He doesn’t want a mindless squabble this early in the morning. After raking over his options, Richard relents, though reluctantly.

“A sailor dedicating his life to hunt down a whale that destroyed both himself and his ship,” he tells the beast, then snaps the book shut. “Nothing you would be interested in.”

“Excuse me?”

Richard leers over at emerald eyes, overshadowed by twisted brows. He says nothing, his silence long enough for the beast to spit out, “I can practically hear the thoughts buzzing inside your fucking head. Spit it out already.”

“Odd, I can’t seem to hear any buzzing from you.”

“Fuck off!”

Richard almost smirks.

He places the book back, stepping past the beast to continue his search. They don’t exchange any other words after that, and it’s more than Richard could ask for. He values the silence like he always does. It’s like that until Alice comes tumbling in, announcing breakfast. Sumo offers a deep bark, something like a smile on his furry face.

Richard expects the beast to follow, but when he turns around, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Before the curse, Hank was the captain of the castle’s main armed force. He was someone to be admired, strong and resilient. The other soldiers like Tina and Chris gladly followed him. His passion burned out once his son, Cole, died from illness. It threw him into a depression he never recovered from, and Hank was never the same since. Now he spends most of his days with Sumo when the dog isn’t with Alice, a glass of booze and a revolver never more than a foot away.


	4. The Fool’s Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll read to you.”

The beast is sitting on one of the couches again when he enters the library one evening. Behind him, a deep orange tints the room, the setting sun visible through the large glass windows. Richard sends a quick glint over at the beast, whose skin is stained a delicate gold, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him as he goes to reorganize a few books. 

Comfortable silence envelops the two of them, no snarky quips or insults. Richard places the borrowed texts back in their rightful slots, wedged in between dust and paper. As the florist does so, he notices the beast shift in his seat from the corner of his eye, mumbling lowly to himself.

Richard can’t help but follow the curve of his spine with his eyes. 

From where he’s standing with a number of books tucked under his arm, Richard says, “Poor posture will become detrimental to your health in the future.” He doesn’t need to look up to know the beast is glaring at him.

“The fuck does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t. I’m only trying to help.”

The beast scoffs, settles back into the couch a little more relaxed. “You’re not my mom.”

The little quip goes unnoticed as Richard finishes organizing the books, wipes his dusty hands with a handkerchief, and saunters around some more. His eyes dance around the library; the magnificence of it never gets old, no matter how many times he’s already seen it. Like the rest of the castle, it themes bright gold and emerald green. The tiled floors are shiny enough to see one’s own reflection in, each square sporting a complex geometric pattern that connects to another like a puzzle. From those squares stem white pillars that touch the ceiling, leaves and vines carved at the tips. A few paintings are scattered along the expensive walls, framed in gold. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, glittering like gemstones, reflecting light that dances across the entire expanse of the library.

It’s undoubtedly Richard’s favorite part of the castle. 

Climbing the stairs up to the second level, he decides it needs a little bit of cleaning as well. He pushes in a few chairs, wipes down some grimy tables with a rag he’d borrowed from the kitchen. Richard enjoys having something to do, even if it’s menial tasks such as these. There is a rather accomplished feeling that settles in the base of his spine after he sees how the furniture and decor shine thanks to his efforts.

When Richard is content, he pulls on the collar of his snug turtleneck, adjusting it, and smooths out the rest of his sweater. As he descends down the lavish staircase, he prepares to leave, but is stopped short just in front of the doors when the beast suddenly asks, “There anything else I can call you besides ‘Richard?’”

When he turns to look at him, the beast is staring off somewhere to the side. His back isn’t hunched over anymore.

Richard considers this, thinks for a moment, then replies simply, “Nines.” He turns the other way before he can study the beast’s reaction, the library’s colossal doors coming to a close behind him. 

A few days pass before he’s met with the beast again. Curled up on the same couch, this time with a book in his lap. There’s a mug of something steaming on the side table next to him, and Richard walks closer, takes in the familiar, sharp smell of coffee beans. 

The beast looks up, waves the book in the air and shoots Richard a grin. “It’s not half bad.”

He has a copy of _Moby Dick_ in his hand, an illustration of the infamous white whale flying out of an unforgiving sea, wooden debris in its jaws, a ship sinking somewhere in the background. 

“I’m surprised it’s not too challenging for you.”

“Fuck you. What kinda shit do you read, then? Bird pornography?”

Richard comes to sit on the couch across from the beast. His back is stiff and straight, several books tucked under the muscle of his arm. The florist takes one and sets the rest down on the empty cushion next to him. 

“I have always been a fan of fiction,” Richard tells him honestly, the answer coming out smooth and easy. It startles even himself, but he decides not to overthink it, and eases the thick book open to where he’d marked it. 

The beast makes a surprised sound.

“Huh.”

“Yes.”

Silence fills the space around them again, and Richard’s chest tugs in a way he can’t explain. He swats the feeling away almost immediately. 

After that, it becomes a routine of some sort. The beast is always the first to arrive, seated on the same green-cushioned couch with his legs bent lazily as he sips his bitter coffee. Sometimes he reads, flipping through the pages listlessly, but reading all the same. Other times he would simply watch Richard get lost in his own book.

“Is there something you need?” Richard had asked him, when he felt the beast staring. His ogling eyes were unsettling. 

The beast’s answer was always the same: “Fuck off.” Rarely now is there any real heat behind the words, Richard’s noticed. It’s become less of a growl and more of an automatic mumble; a simple quip that has Richard fighting back a smirk. 

It’s familiar, and oddly, he can feel himself thawing out. Richard isn’t sure he likes the feeling. 

“Nines,” the beast—well, _Gavin_ , says one day, “try this.” He lifts his coffee mug and juts his chin out at Richard.

“Is it poisoned?” Richard sits up a little, but doesn’t take the mug. He doesn’t really want to. 

“Maybe.” Gavin waves it around some more, and at this point he has no choice but to accept. 

Richard tentatively grasps the mug in his own hands, its warmth seeping into his palms. He peers down at it, watches the brown liquid ripple slightly.

Perhaps he’s been watching too long, because Gavin snaps, “You’re supposed to drink it, dumbass.”

“Shut up,” Richard replies coolly, then tilts the mug back, letting the coffee spill down his throat. It’s awfully bitter, leaving an unpleasant taste on his tongue. He swallows, though reluctantly, and furrows his brows.

“Well?” Gavin urges.

“It’s terrible.”

“Good.”

He hands Gavin his mug, who all but snatches it back, grunting out some sort of insult under his breath. 

“I understand why you’re so irritable all the time; your coffee is disgusting,” Richard tells him, settling back into the couch. The bitter drink is still stuck to his tongue. He hates it. 

“I have _amazing_ taste, thank you very much,” Gavin snarls, flipping him off. Richard lifts the book off his lap with nimble fingers, but before he can pick up where he left off, Gavin calls, “Hey, perfect prick.”

Richard flicks his gaze up, wants to snap at Gavin for giving him a crude nickname. “Yes?”

“Why ‘Nines?’” he asks, and Richard expects him to say more, but he doesn’t. Just looks at him with curious eyes. 

“It’s my favorite number,” Richard replies smoothly, then adds, before he can think twice, “My brother gave it to me. The nickname.” He freezes—the florist didn’t mean to overshare, especially not to Gavin of all people. 

“Brother, huh.” There’s an emotion Richard can’t quite decipher swimming in Gavin’s eyes, something between bitterness and longing. Before he can really ponder about it, Gavin tells him, “I got a brother, too.”

His voice is the quietest it’s ever been, the softest Richard’s ever heard it. He almost doesn’t believe the voice is his. Suddenly, Gavin’s shooting up from his seat, clenching and unclenching his fists, something like panic in his eyes. A shaky breath escapes him, and he hurriedly spits out, “Gotta go.”

He flees and the library doors slam shut, echoing loudly in the emptier room. Richard eyes the forgotten mug of coffee left on the side table across from him, and shakes off the heavy feeling weighing in his chest. The ice crawls back up his skin. 

He goes back to reading, unbothered by it all. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Richard enters the library with a fresh cup of coffee for Gavin. He put in the request with Kara, who smiled at him with knowing eyes. She had slid the beverage over to him and said, “Just how he likes it.”

With this, returning back home wouldn’t be difficult. If he treads carefully enough to get on Gavin’s good side, he could land a ticket home. He could see Connor again. And maybe he’ll even make the beast fall in love with him, since he was so desperate, so _obvious_ it makes Richard want to laugh.

It’s a cruel thing to do, manipulating someone, but he would rather it be Gavin suffering than him. Though Richard does think it’s a shame for the castle servants to suffer as well, none of this was his problem.

This curse had nothing to do with him. These people were strangers, no matter how comfortable he got with them. The only person he has left now is Connor, and he would fight tooth and nail if it meant coming back to him.

Gavin would be more than easy to deal with. 

But what Richard hadn’t expected was for him to not show up at all. The couch he typically occupies is empty, and it has Richard tightening his grip on the mug, disappointed. He sets it down on the table in between the two couches and takes his usual seat.

Patiently, he waits for Gavin; watches the steam rise from the mug until it’s gone. Richard isn’t sure how long he sits there, but eventually Luther pokes his head in through the door to tell him breakfast is ready. He politely declines, assures the giant he’d eat later. 

The beast doesn’t show, and his coffee grows cold. 

Richard dumps it into the sink and decides to try once more the next morning.

But it is the same when he ambles into the library after he awakens, a new cup of the bitter drink in his hands. The couch remains empty and never fills no matter how long he waits. Minutes pass and the coffee loses its heat.

He gets irritated. 

Richard has to throw it out all over again, and he apologizes to Kara, who gives him a soft smile and tells him she doesn’t mind.

On the third try, he gets up even earlier, makes the coffee on his own. No milk, no cream, and  just a spoonful of sugar. Richard stirs the coffee, wondering if he was doing all of this in vain. 

Tina stops him before he can leave the kitchen. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she leans against the wall with her arms crossed.

“Is Gavin still avoiding you?” Tina asks him, flickers her gaze down at the mug in his hands. Richard refuses to reply to a question she already knows the answer to, so he locks his jaw shut. 

“He’ll come around, Nines. He’s just being a hardass.” She flashes him a more genuine smile, but it doesn’t have him feeling any different. A pity. As Richard pads down the hall to the library, he stops, a realization glossing over his mind. Tina had called him “Nines,” an alias he had only ever told Gavin since he’s been here. He suspects the beast told her, and wonders what else he’s babbled about. 

There is no sign of him in the sea of books and dust, and Richard stops trying.

It isn’t hard for him to continue his routine without a colorful mouth interrupting his every thought. Richard does what he’s always done like it’s a mechanical act. Organize the books. Dust the shelves. Sweep the floor.

Soon, he forgets about Gavin. 

It’s weeks later until Richard sees him in the library again. He isn’t sitting on the couch this time, instead leaning against a column with his arms crossed. Gavin’s head shoots up the moment Richard walks in, and he says, “I wanna show you something.”

Richard is quiet as he follows Gavin down the hall, to a part of the castle he hasn’t been to yet. He studies the beast’s back, unsure of his intentions. He is  met with glass doors that lead to what seems like a garden, different than the one Ralph was tending to. 

They step inside, and Richard’s breath stutters at the familiarity of it all. Rose bushes of all colors litter the expanse of the garden, arranged prettily and very much pleasing to the eye. A little wooden bridge hovers above a small pond at the other end of the garden, water shimmering like jewels. 

Gavin gestures to a bench near the entrance, and they sit down. He doesn’t talk, so Richard takes the opportunity to look around and take in the scenery. The air is clean and sweet around them, not a speck of snow in sight. Sunlight feels good on his skin. 

It’s a nice change, Richard thinks.

“I’m guessing you have a lot of questions,” Gavin says suddenly, breaking the fragile quiet. The florist wishes it lasted longer. 

Richard nods. “I do.”

Gavin sighs, low and gutterul. He tips his head back and sprawls out against the bench, brows knitting together in thought. He gestures to his horns, a dry smile on his lips.

“My brother...he, uh, could— _can_ use magic or some bullshit. I don’t know. He never told me much about it, said I wouldn’t understand or something shitty like that.” Gavin pauses, takes in a few breaths. Richard waits patiently. “One day he decided to cast a goddamn spell on our castle, himself excluded. Told me I was full of myself, that one day I’d lose everything ‘cause of my shitty attitude.

“And maybe I deserve it. I can be such a fuck sometimes, but—” his voice breaks, and he clears his throat, “ _they_ don’t. Tina and Chris and everyone else. Goddammit—they didn’t do shit. And now they’re turning into some dumb rocks all because my shitty ass brother couldn’t keep his pettiness in check.” Gavin runs a shaky hand through his hair and slumps in his seat, like he’s exhausted himself.

Richard quietly takes it all in, eyes trained to the ground, wondering why this foolish little beast would tell him any of this in the first place. _He trusts too easily_ , Richard realizes. “What about the watch?” he asks, with false concern. “Is it important?”

Gavin sucks in a breath through his teeth, then lets it out. “Yeah. The moment it strikes nine, everyone here turns to stone and I stay a freakshow forever.”

Richard hums, apathetic. “Is there no way to break the curse?”

A dry laugh rolls off Gavin’s tongue. “Yeah, but it’s kind of lame.”

After Richard sends him a look, he mumbles, “True love and all that bullshit.” His face colors scarlet, and seems to shrink in on himself. He crosses his arms defensively, face turned away from Richard, who bites his tongue to keep himself from laughing. 

“I see. Is that why everyone is so keen on my staying here?”

“Pretty much.”

Richard thins his lips into a line before delivering the blow. “I am not so sure if I will be of much help,” he tells Gavin seriously. He has never shown interest in anyone, even when he was only a boy, instead choosing to focus on running the shop and keeping Amanda pleased. Unlike Connor, Richard is aloof, would much rather spend time alone than with other people. The florist likes to keep his distance, never mingling or going to the social events his brother often attended.

Besides, with his looks, he could get far better than Gavin’s mediocracy.

(Nonetheless, he doesn’t believe he is capable of something so intricate such as love.)

Gavin clenches his jaw, hunches over himself. At first Richard doesn’t think he’ll say anything, but then, in a quiet voice, he says, “I know.”

* * *

 

They continue their routine soon after. Now, Richard arrives first, with a steaming mug of bitter coffee made and ready for Gavin. He wasn’t so keen on accepting it at first, told Richard he’d probably brewed it wrong and would rather lick his own shoe than drink it.

Gavin took one sip, and swallowed his words.

His pride would never let him admit it, but Richard brews it better than Kara, whose been manning the kitchen for years. Besides, the compliment would make Richard all too smug, and Gavin can’t have that.

Currently, they are sitting on their usual couches, across from each other. Gavin’s grown bored of his book and resorts to studying the brooding figure in front of him. Richard always sits with his spine straight, never slouched over or with his knees spread obscenely apart, like Gavin does.

A book rests on his wide palm, eyes gliding over the words. They are an unusual color that Gavin’s never seen before. More gray than blue, like lulled, clear water. Richard’s brows are strong and dignified, and Gavin wonders if he always looks like that, alert and all too threatening even when he’s only reading a book.

Richard’s head is tilted at a slight angle, so Gavin takes the opportunity to trace his sharp jawline with his eyes. The turtleneck Richard always wears only makes him look more refined. It’s hard to tell who the prince is between the two of them, and the revelation has Gavin scowling quietly to himself.

Perfect prick with his stupid hair and deep voice.

Gavin scowls harder, presses his knuckles to his lips. He ignores the blood rushing to his face, and taps his foot against the floor, which causes Richard to look up with his brows creasing somewhat.

“If you think too hard like that, you might get a fever,” Richard, the smartass, tells him. He’s frowning at Gavin’s foot, which has yet to still.

“Fuck off or I’ll make even more noise, flower boy,” he sneers. Hank has loose lips whenever he’s drunk, much to Gavin’s pleasure. Despite his threat, he stops tapping, presses himself further into the couch, like he’s trying to hide. He wants to say something, but his heart is too busy crawling up his throat. Gavin fights back another blush, bites his tongue. His hands grow sweaty.

“Are you trying to defecate?” Richard’s voice is all it takes to bring him back, and Gavin doesn’t want to think about the power the florist already has over him.

Gavin mumbles something in response, then looks away. He doesn’t say it loud enough, because Richard asks him to speak up.

“Do you wanna, like, sit over here or some shit?” The words come out rushed and nervous, Gavin pressing more of himself into the couch, toes curling. He curses at himself for saying something so dumb, like he was a needy little—

“Alright.”

Again, and with no effort at all, Richard reels him back to the present, his mind clearing like the sky after a long thunderstorm.

Gavin feels the couch dip next to him, refuses to look at Richard, who’s shifting until he’s comfortable. Their knees don’t brush or anything like that, but already Gavin is feeling more at ease. He glints at the florist from the side while he rereads his stupid book about that French girl with a thing for hairy men who have bad attitudes.

“They love each other in the end,” Richard had told him when he asked what was so good about it. Gavin only scoffed and told him he was a sap.

They sit together like that for hours, with Gavin half-asleep and Richard turning page after page. It’s easy to doze off with his legs tucked so comfortably at his side, cheek squished against his knuckles and drool pooling at the corner of his lips.

When Gavin wakes up, he’s alone, but there’s a blanket draped over him and his head is on a pillow. The library is mostly dark, stars shining down on him through the glass dome.

He figures the couch is plush enough, and sleeps. 

Tina is extra obnoxious the next morning. She’s wearing her stupid grin, eyes crinkling while she pesters Gavin with her questions.

“You weren’t in your room last night,” Tina tells him, hiding a snicker behind her hand. He wants to punch her. “I saw Nines walking back to the library with a blanket. Care to explain?”

“Your breath is making my eyes tear up. Go fuck yourself,” Gavin snarls, stuffing toast into his mouth. Chris watches their bantering, eyes jumping from him to Tina as he sips his coffee. He has yet to say anything.

“Did you guys cuddle? Oh my fucking god, did he let you touch his hair?”

“What the _fuck—!_ ”

“Tina, let the poor guy breathe,” Chris interjects, setting his cup down. “Your face is like, on fire, by the way,” he adds, pointing at Gavin, who only blushes further.

“You guys are so goddamn annoying,” he mutters, slumping back, trying to ignore the blood thrumming through his veins. “He was reading. I fell asleep. End of story.”

“Lame,” Tina drawls, cupping her hand around her mouth. This time, Gavin _does_ punch her, hard, on the shoulder. She lets him, whipping her head back as she laughs, loud and ugly. When Tina recovers, she says, “Next time, ask him if his hair is as soft as it looks.”

Gavin only pulls his lip back into a sneer, unveiling a sharp canine.

“I’m glad you aren’t a complete asshole to him anymore,” Chris says, an easy smile on his face. “Getting along now, huh, Gav?”

“Shove a stick up your ass, Miller.” Gavin crosses his arms against his chest, defensive. “He’s not...the worst company. Better than Anderson by a long shot.”

“That’s basically a confession, coming from you,” Chris says, and Tina slaps the table while she cackles, shoulders shaking. The dining hall is empty aside from them, and Gavin’s never been more grateful.

“Oh, fuck off,” Gavin growls, shooting up from his seat, empty plate in hand. “I don’t like the bastard. Too damn stiff and silver-tongued.”

“He’s just your type, though,” Tina says from where she’s still seated. Chris nods in agreement, and it has Gavin turning his heel and flipping them off with his free hand until he makes it to the kitchen, where he dumps his dirty dishes and washes his hands.

He stares into the depths of the sink for a moment, chewing his lip as he thinks, blinking away the image of Richard smirking and pretends not to notice how nice it is. Gavin startles as the kitchen door is flung open, Richard walking in looking fresh and polished. The florist’s steps falter as their eyes meet, but he’s quick to recover, makes his way over to Gavin without any hesitation.

Richard stops a few paces short of him, and before he can utter out any kind of greeting, Gavin says, “Hold on.” He reaches forward to fix a stray strand of hair that sits against his forehead, brushes it back with an easy sweep of his hand. This close, Gavin can smell the shampoo Richard used earlier, pleasant and clean and all too calming. He doesn’t notice how his hand is still lingering in Richard’s hair until it’s too late.

“Gavin?”

He whips his arm back, as if burned, stutters out an apology, then books it out the doors. His face is burning, that was so goddamn embarrassing—fuck, why did he do that? Why did he do that? Gavin’s stomach is churning almost violently as he all but sprints to his room, his chest contracting painfully while he tries to even out his breathing.

Nearly tearing the door down, Gavin bursts inside, slams it shut, and collapses onto his bed. He’s burying his face in a pillow, ears flushed hot and red, clutching at the sheets until his knuckles turn white.

He has never touched something so soft, despite all the exotic fabrics and silk he owns.

In his head, Gavin replays the way Richard had said his name for the first time since he’s been here. Lithe and innocent; so unlike the florist’s usual sharp, pompous tone. He doesn’t know why something as simple as Richard saying his name has him so flustered. And to even recognize the feel of another’s skin, their hair, the subtle way their eyes shift and how their breaths came...it doesn’t make any sense to him, how this _stranger_ can just walk in and have him feeling all sorts of strange and confused.

Gavin doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t hate it, either.

 

* * *

 

He needs to pick up the pace.

The longer he stays here, the worse his homesickness gets. It was bearable at first, but now Richard wants to return home using the quickest means possible. The little act he played yesterday worked better than he had thought it would, with Gavin relaxing so much he fell asleep. Richard is sure the blanket was a welcomed surprise when he woke up, the beast being all too predictable, too easy to please.

Gavin’s face was an open book, after all.

His point was made evidently so after the beast had brushed his hair back earlier, fingers entangling the strands to get a better feel. Though the action made Richard want to grimace and swat him away, he let Gavin touch him with his filthy hand. It was a small price to pay for his freedom. 

The beast had sputtered, blushed, and ran away. Richard watched him leave, satisfied with the reaction, a smirk on his lips. He has hardly done anything to incite Gavin, and yet here he is, bristling at the leverage he’s gained all too soon. The beast already has a little schoolyard crush on him.

Richard decides to act a bit bolder this evening. Automatically takes a seat next to Gavin, who looks at him with wide eyes, makes sure their arms brush with the motion. He offers a small smile before diving into his book.

Next to him, the beast squirms.

His mouth twists into a smirk.

“Is something the matter, Gavin?” Richard asks knowingly.

“No,” he lies.

Richard lifts his hand to squeeze Gavin’s knee in a way the beast would decipher as reassuring. He keeps it there, doesn’t have to look up to know the beast is blushing like mad.

After a few beats of silence, he speaks up again, “Would you like me to read to you? I think you’d like this one.” His eyes find Gavin’s, no doubt filled with surprise.

The beast chews his lip, thinking. He does so for an embarrassing amount of time, and Richard almost takes the offer back to try another time. Gavin leans in a little closer, though, and mumbles a quiet _okay_.

They do it every night.

Richard proposes he reads to the beast, to which Gavin always agrees to, with less hesitance each time. He heeds to Richard’s every word, latched onto whatever story they’re reading that night and thoroughly enjoying it, adds in his own comments or complaints whenever he finds them necessary. Richard finds the interruptions to be quite irritable, but not excruciating. 

They inch closer and closer to each other, until Gavin has his head leaning snugly against Richard’s shoulder, eyes glued to the book as he listens to the florist read aloud. The contact burns his skin, has him feeling itchy and unstrung, but he endeavors through it because he has to.

Because Connor is waiting for him.

One night, Gavin falls asleep on him again. Literally, with his cheek pressed against Richard’s chest as they lay on the green-cushioned couch. His horns are retracted so that they don’t poke his skin. It was a bit difficult to read and turn the pages with Richard’s elbows bent like this, but he adjusted soon enough. The florist throws the book onto the coffee table next to them, hopes the quiet thud doesn’t wake Gavin.

When the beast snores, deep asleep, he relaxes, and blows out the candle. Darkness envelops the two of them. He isn’t sure where to put his hands, so they hover awkwardly until he settles one on Gavin’s hip, where his arm is already draped across. The other hand lays loosely against his own chest, near the beast’s head. It isn’t the most comfortable position, as Gavin isn’t exactly light, and his arm has pins and needles in it, but he reminds himself of the reward he’ll get when all of this is over.

When all of this is over, he can go back to his normal life, and he’ll be happy again.

In the meantime, Richard studies Gavin’s face, illuminated by the dim starlight. His eyes follow the scar dancing across the bridge of his nose, ending faintly at his tear duct. At this distance, he can see all of the other scars that litter the beast’s face. Some along his cheeks, near his lips, ghosting his brow, trailing up to his hairline. Gavin shifts in his sleep, his stubble scratching Richard even through his shirt.

He stares a little longer at the peaceful face, devoid of its usual scowl and knitted brows. Like this, Gavin looks almost...pleasant. Coffee beans still cling to his skin like it’s his natural cologne, smelling of Manfred’s Bakery back at Detroit. It’s a familiar smell, something soothing, something warm. He can’t find it within himself to hate it. The beast also smells like smoke, Richard’s noticed, especially his breath. It isn’t a bad smell, not at all, and he wonders if Gavin smokes. 

Despite it all, Richard feels the ice melting away for reasons unknown. Gavin’s body is like a bonfire compared to his own reserved chill, lively and feverish and welcoming. He’s finding himself wanting more of that warmth, wants the ice to thaw out completely and leave him.

Richard can’t seem to tear his gaze away from Gavin’s face. Keeps it there, watches his eyes twitch behind their lids every now and then as he dreams. In his sleep, Gavin’s mouth pulls into a small smile, a dimple revealing itself in the dull light. 

Richard’s fickle heart skips.

_It’s just an act._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Tina is Gavin’s closest friend and his personal guard. Her personality is much like Gavin’s own, though she’s considerably less irritable and more upbeat. She is an admirable fighter even with her joints growing stiff thanks to the curse. Tina has been, and always will be fiercely loyal when it comes to her little makeshift family. It pains her to see Gavin so worn and sullen all the time, but she has a good feeling about Nines.


	5. Something Whispered, Something Screamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It looks lovely on you."

It is well into the winter season when Gavin drags him outside, both of them bundled up in thick coats, scarves wrapped tight around their necks. The snow is falling softly, in gentle flurries, the sky a cool grey that stretches wide above their heads.

Gavin’s fingers shyly clasp around Richard’s wrist, snow crunching underneath their boots as they make their way down the staircase. Without much explaining, Gavin had all but burst into Richard’s room, already dressed for winter, a pile of old clothes cradled in his arms. He ushered the florist to dress quickly, words muffled into his green scarf.

“Where are we going?” Richard asks, adjusting their hands so that their fingers intertwine. Gavin’s ears color red, and he gives a gentle squeeze.

“A small town I like. It’s not far from here,” the beast replies, flicking his eyes down to their gloved hands, heart thudding in his chest. Even through a layer of fleece, Gavin can still feel Richard’s heat, lighting him up like a bonfire, sending bolts of electricity up his arms.

Richard sends him a look of worry, eyeing his horns as they walk through the land of naked trees. “Will you...be alright?”

The florist’s concern has Gavin fighting back a smile, something warm spreading in his chest. For such a simple four words, they sure had quite the impact on his poor heart. “Yeah, I’ll be wearing a hood. No need to fret over me, perfect prick,” he teases. 

Richard sighs. “You are so lacking in common sense I can’t help but worry.”

Gavin snorts, unclasps their hands for a moment to deliver a swift punch to Richard’s shoulder. He barely even budges, a smirk on his lips, pomposity reflecting in his pretty eyes as he snatches Gavin’s wrist, lacing their fingers together again.

“Fuck off,” the beast hisses, though his words are lacking in heat. At this point, they usually are.

“I’m afraid you might do something idiotic if I do,” Richard tells him, mock concern painting his face that has Gavin keeling over how nice he looks with his brows raised like that, full lips curled into a ghost of another smirk.

“Bite me, babe.” The term of endearment is something new to them; Gavin had accidentally let it slip once, panicked and sputtered until Richard told him he didn’t mind. It comes out naturally now, like the sun rising and lowering, and there’s something oddly intimate about the way Richard easily takes it, even smiling a little, soft in the eyes. 

Gavin doesn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him quite like that.

They continue walking through all the snow and ice, occasionally turning this way and that, bickering back and forth about every little thing, their cheeks tinted a sweet pink. Moments later they arrive at the gates of a small town, pausing only so Gavin could pull his hood high over his head, tugging it down as low as it could go before they continue. People pass them without so much as a glance, busy tending to their kids or laughing at a whispered joke.

Gavin leads them over to a food stall selling something salty and fried, buys two orders of meat dripping in grease on a stick. Richard sneers as he’s given his share, and after many curses and threats, reluctantly bites into it, chews once, twice, before he’s passing his piece into a napkin.

“Picky little shit,” Gavin says, biting into his own oily morsel. The taste isn’t bad, but isn’t entirely good either. He swallows anyway, doesn’t want to give Richard the last laugh.

The florist is wiping away the last remains of grease on his lips, nose wrinkled in distaste. “That was undoubtedly revolting,” he says, earning a glare from the stall owner that he very much doesn’t acknowledge. 

Gavin laughs through his nose, throws the remains of his food in a nearby bin. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’ll get you something better, promise.”

“I will hold you to your word.”

They walk down the snow-filled street, passing by little shops and stalls as they go, hands held together tightly. Gavin gladly lets himself be pulled toward a vendor that catches Richard’s eye, money at the ready to buy whatever he asks for.

He buys three little egg tarts that fit in the flat of his palm, all for Richard.

“Will you not have at least one?” the florist asks him, after he’s finished his first tart.

“Not the biggest fan of sweet shit,” Gavin replies simply, tucking his pouch of coins back into the depth of his cape, turning away from the food stall.

“It makes sense, given your personality,” Richard says almost thoughtfully, taking another bite out of the custardy treat.

“Okay, smartass. Your tastes don’t really line up with your personality, either.” Gavin returns to him, taking the florist’s outstretched hand in his. They continue their stroll through the bustling streets.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to. Am I not always sweet with you?”

“Half the time I can’t tell if you’re flirting or being an asshole,” Gavin teases roughly, a grin threatening to pull at his lips. He isn’t used to it; smiling so freely. In all his years of being a prince, Gavin always had to keep face, couldn’t risk having his brother’s reputation being dragged through the mud, so he often kept his distance in the background while Elijah flattered their guests with his charming smile and smart words, not knowing they were being exploited.

Gavin wouldn’t know what to do with himself if someone were to fool him like that.

“I’ll leave that for you to decide, then,” Richard remarks, then tugs the beast’s arm to drag him to another vendor whose stall is littered with jewelry hanging from hooks or draped along the table in neat rows, precious rocks and stones catching what little light goes unveiled through the clouds.

Gavin lets the florist examine the many ornaments and jewels, waiting patiently at his side until his eyes linger on the necklaces dangling from their respective mannequins; a set made for two.

“Do you want them?” the beast asks, shuffling close enough that their shoulders brush.

“They are quite lovely, but I don’t have any coins—”

“I’ll buy them, babe. I dragged you all the way out here, after all,” Gavin interrupts quickly, trying to ignore the look of hesitance on Richard’s face.

“Gavin, you mustn’t spend your money so thoughtlessly,” the florist argues back, voice firmer this time.

“I got all the money in the world, babe,” Gavin pauses, looks Richard in the eye, “Besides, this is the least I can give you.” It’s said quieter so that only the two of them can hear, but the heaviness in Gavin’s voice is painfully honest, and it leaves Richard without a smart retort.

Then, after a few beats of a tense silence, the florist says, “Alright. Thank you, Gavin.”

Gavin purchases both necklaces, nearly identical save for the color of the gemstones. The vendor thanks them happily, hands them the chains packaged nicely in a decorative box, to which the beast stows away in his pocket.

“You...did not have to do that,” Richard tells him once they start moving again. There is something like regret on his face, and Gavin thinks the look doesn’t suit him at all.

“I did it ‘cause I wanted to, perfect prick,” he retaliates, worry bubbling up in his chest. His mind drifts to ponder about whether Richard had actually wanted the necklaces or not, if he’d made another shitty decision because he couldn’t help getting ahead of himself, always moving too fast or not fast enough. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “I can, uh, return them, if you want. It’s fine.”

As he waits for Richard’s answer, his pulse quickens unpleasantly, and despite it being so cold, he can feel the sweat starting to form underneath his gloves. They stop walking, and the people passing by disappear like they were never there, a hushed silence filling the space around them even though they’re in the middle of a bustling marketplace.

Gavin is moments away from fully panicking, feels the burning itch of his wings swimming under his skin, threatening to burst forth from his back.

Finally, Richard says, voice gentle, “You misunderstand me, Gavin. I appreciate the gift; it was very nice of you. I only want to clarify that you do not have to buy me every little thing just to please.”

The florist’s words are soothing, like cool salve to a terrible burn, and Gavin’s heart steadies, the itch in his back fading to nothing.

His throat feels a little dry, his hands still clammy, but the townspeople and their lively chattering come back all too suddenly, carriages scuttling by while a bell chimes above a shop door in the distance. It grounds him, the sound of children laughing and playing in the snow, oil popping as it sizzles above a low fire.

Gavin wets his lips, clenches his hands. When his voice returns, he speaks. “I just wanna give you something meaningful.” He doesn’t have the confidence to look Richard in the eye, so he stares at his chest instead, to where the deep blue scarf is folded in a tight loop.

Two fingers hook under his chin, and Gavin lets his head rise with the action. Richard’s eyes—blue eyes, like his brother’s, though they are much safer to look at—are as soft as his touch, and for once his brows are relaxed, no crinkle to be seen in between them. He keeps his gloved fingers to Gavin’s chin, holds him steady.

“This is enough for me.”

How five words could make his throat tight and eyes wet, leaves him so utterly speechless his jaw drops, is beyond him. Gavin stands there, mouth ajar like a loose door, gaze fixated on the beauty before him, at a complete loss for words. 

Never in his days as a prince had someone spoken to him with such honesty, not even Elijah, whom he shares blood with. It was always sweet words disguised as hard threats, sharp smiles and an even sharper stare. When they were still kids, Elijah would turn in first the nights after every dinner event or ball, exhaustion too great to spend any time alone with Gavin, no matter how hard he begged.

He’d always apologize for that—for being so tired all the time. But when it was Gavin’s turn to trudge up the ridiculously-sized stairs to go to bed himself, he’d see electric blue flickering from beneath Elijah’s door, an all too telling sign of his magic. He’d heard his brother mumbling to himself, the harsh scrape of pen on paper, his feet padding around the carpeted floors.

At some point, Gavin stopped asking, stopped begging his older brother for any kind of relationship. And judging by how Elijah purposely slept in some mornings, pretending to be asleep, pretending, because before he never wanted to miss seeing the sun rise, he understood to stay away. In mornings like those, and eventually, all of them, Gavin would only have to request one cup of coffee instead of the usual two. The coffee was never for Elijah.

The gap between the two brothers festered and grew like a spoiled wound, mottled and painful, though not necessarily on both ends. They went from going everywhere together to hardly speaking, as if doing so would kill one of them. Like they were never even brothers, they became strangers, and Gavin found himself being alone, so, so alone and tired he would stare at the walls until night fell, eyes too wet to make out the stars.

It was like that for a long time, that suffocating loneliness, until Tina and Chris were assigned to him when they were teenagers, and then it didn’t feel like the castle was so big anymore, not as cold. They filled some of the empty space Elijah left in his chest with their teasing personalities and firm loyalty; he couldn’t ask for better friends. But even with them by his side, Gavin always felt like he was missing something, although he could never quite place his finger on it. Tina and Chris filled _some_ of the space, not all.

Years passed without the hole ever completely filling regardless of how many new servants were hired and had shown him kindness (some more than others), had befriended him. Even still, Gavin clung to the heaviness taking shelter in his heart, crushing him, unsure of what it took to alleviate it. He stopped searching once his face started to bear its prickly stubble, too fed up to waste his time chasing after something he didn’t know anything about.

The night Elijah cursed him and his servants to high hell was the night Gavin became painfully aware of what he so desperately needed. The realization didn’t come slowly like it did in the books or plays; it was thrust onto him like a violent tidal wave, suddenly and all at once, without warning.

Elijah fled the castle with a mysterious golden-haired woman, and Gavin went back to begging people for relationships all over again in a frenzied attempt to reverse the spell. But men and women alike couldn’t bear looking at his devilish horns, his cat-slit eyes and broken glass teeth without screaming or insisting he was some kind of freak.

It hurt, more than Gavin likes to admit.

After so many failed attempts, he finally burned out, apologizing, always apologizing to his friends because he couldn’t do anything for them, because all of this was _his_ fault and he never felt so goddamn worthless in his life.

Late into the night, into many nights, Gavin tore at his hair and bloodied his knuckles. He could feel the urge growing larger and larger, would stare at the copper red dripping from his hand and, not for the first time, questioned the great, inevitable human weakness that was mortality. Skin breaks easily, and with claws like his, it wouldn’t have been hard. Not at all.

But then, this pretty, silver-tongued florist wandered into his castle, straight into the lion’s den without knowing, and demanded to see his mother despite the manticore snarling only paces away, jaws at the ready to tear down.

Gavin wasn’t so sure about Richard at first, was absolutely livid about Hank’s sudden acceptance to that snake of a woman’s deal.

It was difficult, trying to warm up to him, tolerating the florist even if his endeavors might’ve not been returned. To Gavin’s bewilderment, they were. It took some adjusting and quite a deal of patience, but Richard, an outsider, summed up the courage to not only bicker and patronize him, but to _touch_ Gavin, unlike anyone had in the past.

When he needed to rant and rave, Richard listened. When Gavin needed something to put his thundering mind to rest, Richard read to him in yellow candlelight, took the beast into his arms and pressed his mouth to Gavin’s hair like he was something precious, something treasured. The feeling has Gavin smiling to himself whenever he’s alone, like the fool he is, genuine enough that a dimple shows itself, which is quite the rarity if you asked anyone who truly knows him.

And now, in this very moment, the weight of Richard’s words not dragging Gavin down, but rather, raising him up, the beast swears he feels his heart swell nearly beyond its borders.

The pit in his chest fills, unwavering.

Richard’s hand leaves Gavin’s chin, taking the warmth away with it, but still there’s a lingering buzz fresh on his skin, under his stubble. The beast blinks away the tears building steadily behind his eyes, grateful for the hem of his hood that obstructs some of his face, and lets out a breath that turns white in the winter air.

“I’m glad.”

 

* * *

 

It’s hours later when grey fades into black, snowflakes being replaced with stars as the clouds shift to reveal the moon. Outside, townspeople light candles and lanterns to fend off the darkness. With the children asleep, the adults can loosen up, allow themselves to indulge in a few drinks that leave them tipsy and content.

Gavin is a terrible drunk.

He’s only had a few drinks, but already Richard is refusing his consuming any more, fearing the beast would wreck himself.

“Damn it, Nines!” Gavin slurs slightly, kicking the florist’s leg from under the table. “Alcohol isn’t allowed in the castle ‘cause we got a kid. Let me enjoy this, you fucker!”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Gavin. As vertically challenged as you may be, you are not the lightest person, and we have a considerable ways to go if we want to return back to the castle tonight,” Richard tells him, as collected and poised as always, even though he had a greater number of drinks than Gavin.

“You callin’ me fat?”

“No, darling. I’m saying you’re a pain to carry home.”

_Home._

Gavin flushes, almost tips his chair back, but Richard is there to catch him before he falls. His face is a furious shade of red, and it isn’t due to the very little amount of alcohol he’d drank.

“Fuck you!” he shouts on instinct, much louder than he wanted, eyes wide. Curious heads turn to look at them, eager for a tavern fight to entertain them for the night.

Richard stands, and for a second Gavin thinks he’s mad, but he takes him by the arm and they exit the tavern, the bitter taste of liquor still stuck to their tongues, their clothes. The night’s chill is more on the lenient side, but the florist fixes Gavin’s loosened scarf anyway.

“Thanks,” the beast mumbles.

“Of course,” Richard nods. “Let’s walk.”

The soft crunch of snow nearly lulls Gavin to sleep, aided by the gentle rapture of liquor, but Richard’s occasional tugs to his arm keep him awake. They amble through the snowy road until a bench comes into view, in front of a church’s large stained-glass window that depicts two men, one in the air with feathered wings and the other stuck to the ground, a flower in his hand. The are both reaching for each other, in the sunlight that’s spilling around them like melted gold.

As the pair sit down, the muted light filtering through the colorful glass tints their skin many hues, mellow and vibrant. It softens the edges of Richard’s face so that he appears far more gentle than his usual menace, and although they are sitting in low light, Gavin has never seen a brighter shade of blue.

He takes some time to admire Richard’s face, the freckles dotting along his cheeks, his nose, the way his lips are pulled into a faint smile, as if he’s content just being here, with a beast.

Gavin wishes all his days could be like this, for as long as the universe would let him.

He is so lost in his own marveling, underestimates the effect that alcohol has on his mouth, and blurts out, “You look nice like this.”

Richard looks surprised and starts to say something, but Gavin can’t seem to stay quiet.

“Really fuckin’ good in this light,” he coos, his body curling forward before he can really think about it.

A hand comes to cover his mouth.

“Gavin,” Richard says gruffly, a high color to his cheeks. “You are intoxicated. We should go home.”

Gavin swats his hand away, irritated. “Jus’ lemme kiss you.”

“No, Gavin. We are going home.” With that said, Richard heaves the beast up by the arms, lets the drunken man lean on him as they stumble through the snow.

“Fuckin’ perfect prick. I can walk on my own.” Gavin weakly shoves the florist away, but his legs are too feeble to hold him up. He sways once, twice as he tries to take a few steps forward, nearly tripping on the hem of his cape, the hood shifting with the all the struggling.

Richard places a hand to Gavin’s hip, the other taking the beast’s arm and swinging it around his own neck.

“Please behave,” the florist tells him roughly, shouldering most of Gavin’s weight as they start walking again. “Do you have enough coins we can spend at a hostel? I do not believe we can make it home in this state.”

“Of fuckin’ course, dipshit,” Gavin drawls, wrinkling his face. He trips over a small rock, sending both of them into a short stumble.

Once Richard stabilizes them, he hisses lowly, “Can you _please_ behave?”

“Can you _please_ take that stick out of your ass?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole who won’t kiss me.” Gavin feels Richard tense, the hand on his hip giving a fleeting squeeze.

“The hostel is right around here,” Richard says quietly, after a moment’s silence.

Deep in his chest somewhere, Gavin’s heart offers a dull thud.

 

* * *

 

The alcohol in his system thins out a bit after they book their room, a single bed that smells suspiciously of something sour, cracks in the walls and a leaky ceiling, blotches of water staining the yellowed plaster.

It isn’t ideal, but it works, Gavin supposes.

He all but collapses onto the creaky bed, which moans under his weight.

“Glad to know my money’s being well-spent,” Gavin scoffs, still clad in his winter clothing and cape.

“Would you rather sleep outside?” Richard asks by the window, shedding off his coat and unswaddling his scarf.

“Fuck you.”

“Take off your clothes, at least.”

After unlacing his boots, Richard steps over to where Gavin is splayed out on the bed, takes him by the shoulders, and yanks him up. The beast pushes him away, grumbling to himself, the sudden flurry of motion making his head spin.

He tries to undo the clasp holding his cape together, but his hands are too clumsy, still a bit stiff from the cold. Warmer, thinner fingers come to help him, and Gavin lets his own fall to his lap. Richard pulls his hood back to reveal the beast’s face, cheeks still dusted pink and gaze unfocused.

“Feels like I’m gonna pass out,” Gavin tells him roughly, his eyelids drooping. A sigh is heard as he falls back onto the bed, legs dangling off the edge while he shuts his eyes. He feels Richard shift, nimble fingers sliding off his boots in easy movements.

“At this point, I’ll let you,” Richard murmurs, and Gavin hears a bit more shuffling behind his closed eyes until he feels the bed dip next to him, a familiar warmth pressing into his arm.

He’s too tired to say anything, just gives a lazy nod.

“Goodnight, Gavin.”

Gavin dreams, and for once, there are no nightmares.

Hours later, when the sun has barely peeked behind the hills, he awakens, body aching and throat so dry he thinks his tongue shriveled up in his sleep. Gavin groggily blinks himself awake, stares up at the battered ceiling, which only worsens his mood. His head pounding, he heaves himself up on his elbows, and only then does he acknowledge the arm draped across his waist, holding him loosely.

Richard is laying on his side, still asleep, breaths coming even and unrushed. He looks peaceful, and Gavin would stay in bed with him for hours if he could, but his stomach is churning, churning, so he carefully prys Richard’s arm off of him and slides off the bed, hurrying to the washroom where he empties his stomach in the musty toilet.

The lavatory’s door creaks open, revealing Richard with tousled hair and pillow marks on his face, but otherwise looks perfectly presentable.

“Would you like some water?” he asks, to which Gavin answers with a tired nod from where he’s hunched over the toilet. The florist leaves, so he takes some time to wash his face, gargle the remains of vomit from his mouth. Richard returns with a tall glass of the promised water, which Gavin gulps down almost desperately. 

He sighs after he finishes, bringing a hand to his forehead.

“Fuck,” Gavin curses simply, closing his eyes.

“Indeed,” Richard says from where he’s standing by the door.

“What the hell did we do last night?” Gavin asks, leaving the empty glass by the sink and shuffling out of the washroom, the florist in tow.

Richard grabs his coat and scarf, dresses himself by the window. He runs a hand through his hair and fixes it with one smooth motion, Gavin all too envious.

“We only had a few drinks.”

“A _few?_ It feels like I’m fucking dying.”

“A pity you can’t hold your liquor,” Richard jests, lacing up his boots. “Get dressed so we can eat breakfast; I can only guess myself what your body will do if you continue to abuse it any further.”

They lumber out of the shabby hostel, find a small cafe that sells every type of bread and baked good. Gavin orders himself a cup of coffee, and it’s the best thing he’s smelled all day, almost burns his tongue trying to drink it.

Richard nibbles at his own food, bread with a sweet filling that Gavin sneers at, tea on the side, warm and earthy and perfect for winter.

Hiding his face behind the mug, Gavin allows himself to admire the scene unfolding before him, takes in the way morning light looks on Richard’s skin as he sips his tea. He looks ethereal, so stunning despite Gavin having seen him a hundred times over during this hour; he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow bored of it, this breathtaking view.

For the first time, Gavin thinks, _I’m so in love with you._

The thought has him choking on his coffee, face coloring that familiar crimson. 

“Gavin?” He hears the chair scrape, signaling Richard standing up, but he holds out a hand as he coughs.

“It’s fine,” Gavin tells him hoarsely, wheezing, and Richard tentatively returns to his seat. 

“If you say so.”

His face still burns hot long after they’ve finished breakfast, even as they start their walk home, tries to let the winter chill cool his cheeks. Gavin’s hood is down, not needing to hide himself from Richard.

Speaking of which, Gavin glances at the florist, who looks to be deep in thought, eyes distant and far away.

“Nines?” the beast calls.

No answer.

“Nines?” he tries again. “Hey, perfect prick?” Gavin stops walking, but Richard doesn’t. Just keeps going like he’s being pulled along.

Fed up, the beast tries the next best thing.

“Richard!”

The florist halts, stiff and tense, like a stone statue. Richard turns his head, his eyes narrowing and ablaze with a hatred so intense and unexpected it sends spikes of ice up Gavin’s legs.

“Do not call me that,” Richard tells him, voice shaking with an unbridled rage that the beast has never seen before.

“The fuck is your problem?” Gavin hisses, fingers curling into fists. “Is there something on your mind? What’s wrong—”

“I do not believe that is any of your business.”

The words are so blunt, so cold it makes him flinch, nailing digging into the meat of his palm.

“Fucking fine, then,” Gavin spits, stomping ahead, shoulder checking Richard on the way, who, as expected, hardly falters.

 _Dumbass prick having second thoughts about this,_ he fumes to himself, jaw tight. _Fuck him. What a goddamn waste of my time, for fuck’s sake—_

A hand hesitantly touches his shoulder, as if asking for permission.

“Gavin,” Richard calls, his voice soft, dripping with guilt.

“Fuck you.”

“I apologize, Gavin. I lost my temper for a moment,” the florist says, his grip on Gavin’s shoulder growing firmer. They come to a stop in the middle of the snow-stained path, surrounded by naked trees dressed in white.

Gavin chews his lip. “You have a problem with your name, or something?”

“Gavin—”

“Answer it, or don’t,” he snaps, turning to face Richard, whose face is drawn tight, lips thinned into a line.

The florist is quiet for awhile, and Gavin loses his patience, begins to turn away again, prepared to march back home on his own.

“It—it reminds me of painful memories.”

He freezes.

“I would rather not explain it here,” Richard starts, staring straight ahead, straight at him. “But I will, if you would like to know.”

Gavin studies his face for the upteenth time, searches it for any signs of dishonestly, of deceit. He doesn’t find any, and his shoulders relax unconsciously.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but,” Gavin lets his scowl fall, lets his eyes soften, “you don’t like being called ‘Richard’ ‘cause it reminds you of her, doesn’t it?”

In Richard’s silence, he finds his answer.

Gavin sighs through his nose, finds the courage to move his legs, stops a pace away from the florist.

“Then, as long as you’re here, you can be ‘Nines’ and just ‘Nines.’ I won’t let you be a slave to your own name.”

Richard—no, _Nines,_ looks back at him, eyes swimming with a thousand emotions, uncharacteristically wet and shining,

Quietly, like a whisper to be lost in the winter winds, he says, “Thank you, Gavin.” His voice shakes, so Gavin takes his hand, saying nothing, just gives a firm squeeze that he hopes says more than he allows.

They walk back home in a peaceful hush, Gavin feeling like he’d taken a crushing weight off his shoulders, like he could finally breathe.

At the castle, the pair manage to sneak back without anyone noticing, finding sanctuary in the comfort of the grand library, where they spend most of their time together. Gavin hauls off his winter clothes, letting them fall somewhere to the side, but not before grabbing the box he’d kept stored away in his cape’s pockets.

“C’mere, Nines,” Gavin calls, lifting the lid to reveal the necklaces he’d bought. He tells Nines to turn around, loops the thin, silver chain around his neck. The gemstone sits on the fabric of his turtleneck, a glittering emerald stark against the dark cotton, encircled in silver.

Nines turns to face Gavin, nimble fingers coming to touch the stone, lips twitching into a faint smile.

“Not half bad,” the beast grins, eyes crinkling. Nines looks up at him, then at the box in his hands. He takes it, beckons Gavin to turn around so he can do the same.

The sapphire is cut and chiseled to match the shape of its counterpart, the slight chill of the metal pleasant on Gavin’s bare skin, where it sits on his collarbone. He has had jewelry far more expensive, more bedazzled and complex and suited for a prince. But he is no longer a prince, so the simple chain holds more worth than anything he’s ever owned.

(And that’s always the crux of the matter, isn’t it? To find something so irreplaceable and sincere that all you’ve had before turns into dust as you fall to the great mortal weakness they call love. A great mortal weakness that even a beast could be subjected to, despite what they say.)

Nines turns him around by the shoulders, keeps one of his hands there.

“Well,” he starts, lips stretching into a full smile, a true rarity. His eyes lift with the motion, and he looks so _good_ Gavin wants to kiss him. “aren’t you lovely.”

“Sap,” the beast croaks, and Nines places his hand to the back of Gavin’s neck, pulls him forward. Their lips meet, Gavin’s heart beating so hard against his ribs he fears they might break. The tips of his fingers tingle pleasantly as they encircle around Nines’ wrists, which have migrated from his neck to Gavin’s face, cradling it as if he was holding the world in his hands.

 _I love you,_ Gavin wants to say, but the words never leave his mouth. Instead, he pushes all of his emotions into the kiss, hopes they reach Nines despite how foolish the idea is.

They pull back, breathless and panting quietly against the other’s skin. When Gavin opens his eyes, Nines is already staring, face sporting a faint blush.

“You may not remember, but that was to make up for last night,” Nines tells him, and although Gavin has no idea what he’s talking about, leans forward to kiss him again.

They stay with each other until the moon rises, and even then, they can’t seem to let go.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere, well beyond the extent of the castle’s cursed winter, is the great city of Detroit. A woman comes into a tavern with her son gloomily trailing behind her, looking a thousand years old.

She saunters up to a man sitting with his lackeys, bow and arrows strapped to his back, a drink in his thick fingers.

“There is a beast in the woods, and it has taken my son,” Amanda tells him, feigning sorrow. Her voice shakes as she forces tears, and although Connor can see right through her, he keeps his jaw locked shut.

“Well, then.” Perkins offers a slimy smile, all teeth and gums. “Then I say we ought to slay the beast!”

“Slay the beast!” his men cheer, chanting it until the entire tavern shakes with newfound bloodlust, men slamming their fists on the tables, spitting promises to slaughter whatever monster had taken the poor woman’s son.

While the tavern drowns in growing animosity, Amanda smiles to herself, relishes in the fact of how fortunate it is that men do not think. Her eyes are dangerous, far more malicious than any beast out there.

Next to her, Connor shivers, knowing that Amanda’s intentions could only end in blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Amanda is the adoptive mother of Connor and Nines. She found them rifling through her peonies one day, their faces dirty and dreadfully slim. She took them in and taught the brothers all that she knew, motherly and kind. It was when they started getting older that Amanda's personality shifted, and she became cold and abrasive. No one knows the reason for such a sudden change in demeanor, though Nines faintly remembers seeing her palms glow a soft pink sometime during his childhood, when Amanda thought he wasn't looking.


	6. In the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust is something sacred, something shared. Nines knows that with all of himself.

Days have passed since their first kiss. At first, the feeling was foreign and, quite admittedly, unwanted, but Nines would get out of this cursed castle even if it cost him a sliver of his pride.

He hadn’t wanted to kiss the beast. It was one of those in-the-moment decisions; simply, Nines saw his chance, and he took it, felt the burn of Gavin’s stubble on his skin, lips tasting of coffee and everything bittersweet.

When he had pulled back and saw the beast’s flushed face, pupils eating away at emerald eyes, something coiled in his gut—perhaps it was possessiveness, or maybe even lust, Nines isn’t quite sure—and he dove in for a second, then a third.

They had stumbled into Gavin’s bedchambers without being seen, collapsed on his large bed and kissed some more, as if they couldn’t get enough of each other. Nines didn’t even mind the sting whenever the beast’s teeth had accidentally nicked him, drawing blood.

He welcomed it, even slithered his hand underneath Gavin’s shirt, fingertips ghosting over the hot skin beneath it, along his ribs, his sternum. Nines’ lips had pulled into a smirk when his thumb ran over a nipple, savored the hitch in Gavin’s breath as he did so, mouthing at the beast’s throat.

They didn’t go any further than that, although it was difficult to stop. Gavin had pulled away first, breathless, shirtless, hands resting on Nines’ bare chest, just missing his collarbones. His eyes seemed to linger on the chiseled emerald looped around the florist’s neck, shimmering even in the low light.

Gavin’s gaze flicked upwards, into Nines’ pools of ice, and licked his lips. “You move too fast for me, asshole,” he had told him quietly, though not unkindly.

“It is a shame that your legs can’t keep up with mine,” Nines had replied, hands squeezing the beast’s hips.

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe next time.”

And with that, they eased into bed with Gavin’s head resting against Nines’ chest, immersed in the many pillows and blankets the beast kept. The florist watched him as he slept, counted the scars that were littered all across Gavin’s face, both the new and the faded.

Sleep was slow to take him, that night.

Now, as he stands in the castle’s kitchen preparing the custard filling for egg tarts, Nines lets his mind wander elsewhere, thinks of the people and places back home, the comfort of his own bedroom, his brother.

Gods, Connor must be _devastated_.

He tries not to let his thoughts linger too much, ends up using more strength than necessary to stir the mixture, flinches back as it splatters along his arms and the table.

“You know, you’re supposed to be mixing the filling, not beating the absolute shit out of it,” Gavin calls from where he’s stuffing the tart molds with dough.

“Pardon me, I was thinking of you.” Nines sets the spoon down, takes a rag to clean up the spilled batter. 

“What a fuckin’ riot you are, babe.”

An unexpected warmth gathers in his chest, to which he immediately swats away. He doesn’t need this; doesn’t need to be slowed down any further than he already has been. Gavin is like an unwanted weight bearing down on his shoulders, one that he very much isn’t willing to carry.

(One he doesn’t think he _can_ carry.)

“This is done. Are you finished over there?” Nines asks, giving the mixture a final whisk before he strains it, smooth and easy. He gets a grunt in response, so he brings the bowl over to where Gavin is, starts to ladle the custard filling into the shells carefully, with a visible swiftness that has the beast snorting.

“Show off.”

Nines pours the last of the mixture, drops the ladle into the empty bowl. “Only for you, darling.”

He goes to wash his sticky hands, hears the flames of the cobblestone oven crackle as Gavin pushes the tray inside.

“I’m flattered.”

Lips press to the back of his neck, covered by the cotton of his high collar, although the thin layer does little to shield him from the slight prickle of the beast’s stubble. Nines’ body relaxes without his consent, eases into Gavin’s touch as naturally as the wind blowing or the smooth flow of water.

 _You want this,_ a gentle voice in his head says. _You’ve wanted this for a long time_.

 _No, I don’t,_ he thinks. He must be going mad, being prisoner to a beast for so long. Perhaps the curse was affecting him, as well; making him long for things he never wanted, never needed.

Despite the growing storm thundering in his head, Nines doesn’t flinch away, plays his part with a smile. He turns to cup Gavin’s cheek, offers a sweet kiss to his lips. It has gotten much easier to stomach now, with all the practice he’s been doing. The beast is eager for more, stands on his toes and wraps his arms around Nines’ neck, pulling him closer still.

Their chests touch as Nines allows his hands to travel to Gavin’s hips, holding him steady while the beast cranes his neck to kiss him, heated and greedy. Nines pulls away, nibbles the shell of Gavin’s ear, absolutely _adoring_ the low whimper he manages to draw from the beast’s throat.

His head travels lower, to the junction between Gavin’s neck and shoulder, giving the skin there gentle tugs with his teeth, tongue lapping over his pulse point, wet and heavy.

Gavin shudders, and Nines retaliates by flipping them so that the beast is pushed up against the counter, slips a hand underneath his shirt to graze up his spine with his fingers, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“N-Nines,” Gavin pants, legs trembling.

“I’ve got you, darling,” Nines tells him, knowing he’s lying. To push away the guilt, he hauls the beast up and over the counter, legs coming to wrap around his waist without hesitation. Gavin squeezes Nines’ shoulders, tilts his head back as the florist sucks a small bruise on his neck, then another, traveling lower.

Nines hikes Gavin’s shirt up higher to reveal a nipple, the beast leaning back to let him tug at it with his teeth, another whimper escaping his throat. The florist drags his tongue over the bud, relishes the taste that is so uniquely Gavin, excitement growing as the beast shivers and moans softly against him.

He reminds himself that this is only an act, that he doesn’t harbor any genuine feeling for Gavin.

Even so...Nines finds himself wanting more, touching the beast and kissing him back just as feverishly, feels his pants tent and tighten, blood pooling to his groin. Gavin grabs his face in his hands, presses their mouths together again, all tongue and teeth that leaves Nines feeling a bit dizzy, like he’d tipped back a strong glass of absinthe.

“Darling,” the florist groans when they pull away, panting against the other’s skin like they’ve done many times before.

Gavin’s face is flushed a bright crimson, bringing out the green of his eyes. Nines tightens his grip on the beast’s waist, seeking permission.

“The—the uh, tarts will burn,” Gavin says breathlessly, gaze flickering to the oven behind them.

“Let them,” Nines replies, just as breathless, dipping his head down to litter Gavin’s skin with more mottled bruises, giving each one a kiss, as if to apologize for the pain.

“Nines,” the beast calls, giving a light shove. “Not—not here.” Gavin’s legs come undone from his waist, and the florist knows to pull back, though his hands stay where they are.

“The bedroom, then?” Nines asks, following the bob of Gavin’s adam apple as he swallows.

“Later,” he promises, “when everyone’s asleep.”

Pressing one last kiss to Gavin’s collarbone, Nines nods, then helps him off the countertop. The beast looks every bit disheveled, hair tousled and clothes rumpled up, his face a deep scarlet, pupils blown.

It leaves a feeling of satisfaction in the florist, knowing Gavin was left that way because of him.

His hand rise to fix the beast’s collar, smooths it over with his palm, fingers tracing the edge of the gemstone that sits there almost fondly.

Their jewelry symbolizes something greater than Nines has ever known, greater than he thinks he deserves. He doesn’t let the guilt show, hides it away under his mask, unwavering even as he takes Gavin by the wrist to check on the egg tarts together.

Gavin shovels them out to let the desserts cool, brows knitting together in concentration until he’s done. The beast lets out a low whistle, steps back to admire their work.

When he turns his head to send Nines a grin that pulls at his eyes, the florist’s heart tugs. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey! They don’t actually taste like shit!”

“Fuck you, Chen! Miller, get your ass in here!”

“I’m allergic to eggs, Gavin.”

All of the castle’s workers had wandered downstairs, intrigued by the heavenly smell coming from the kitchen. Tina stormed in first, demanding two tarts and rushing past Gavin, not caring if he stumbled. She was followed by Chris, then Hank, and soon everyone else.

Nines stands next to Kara, helping her brew coffee and tea. He makes Gavin’s cup without thinking, stirs in a spoonful of sugar, bringing the spoon to his lips to taste. It’s as bitter as it should be, so the florist sets the spoon down, prepares to hand Gavin his coffee, but a gentle touch to his wrist stops him.

Nines meets Kara’s gaze, ocean blue on icy grey.

“Thank you,” she says unexpectedly, quietly, so just Nines can hear, “for making him happy.”

The florist swallows the lump in his throat. “There is nothing to thank me for,” he tells her steadily, with more honesty than he’s shown Gavin.

Kara shakes her head, a smile gracing her features. “This is more than we could have ever asked for. I thank you on behalf of all of us, Nines. We’re very grateful.”

The florist doesn’t trust himself to speak, just gives her a curt nod, lips tight, whirling around to find wherever Gavin had been dragged off to.

Nines finds him seated in the dining hall with his arms crossed, face burning, surrounded by Tina and Hank cackling, heads thrown back in their laughter. Chris is more composed, though there is a visible smirk on his lips.

“Gavin,” he calls, setting his coffee down on the table.

“There he is,” Tina giggles, elbowing a scowling beast, his teeth bared.

“Fuck off.”

“Getting a little ahead of yourself in the kitchen, huh, Gavin?” Hank leers, eyes darting between him and Nines.

“What is this all about?” the florist asks, looking to Gavin for answers.

Tina laughs some more, points to the beast’s neck. At this angle, Nines can’t see what she’s referring to, until it clicks in his head.

“Oh.”

Gavin snarls, swatting her hand away. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, you bitch?”

“No, do you?”

“Alright, let’s leave them alone,” Chris says, coming to a stand. “Kara probably needs help in the kitchen, and I don’t think Ralph is the best person for that.”

Just then, crash resounds from the kitchen, followed by a calming voice trying to settle down a panicked one. Tina jumps from her seat and jogs across the room before Ralph can get out of hand, sends a wink over her shoulder at Nines as she passes, Chris scuttling after her. Hank gets up as well, knees popping, before he goes to follow, claps a firm hand over Nines’ shoulder.

He isn’t sure what the gesture is supposed to mean, but the florist figures he doesn’t like it.

Nines turns back to Gavin, seats himself in the chair next to him.

“I will be more subtle next time,” he tells him, one end of his lips lifting into a half-smirk.

The beast brings the cup to his lips, glares at Nines over the rim. “You fuckin’ better.”

The florist hums, swings a long leg over his knee. “It seems our desserts are a success.”

“‘Course they are,” Gavin says smugly, setting the cup down. “I’m gonna bring you somewhere, after this.”

“Where, exactly?”

The beast offers him a toothy grin, revealing a dimple.

“You’ll love it.”

It is hours later when the kitchen is wiped down, servants trickling out, happy and full. Gavin is ushering Nines up the stairs, up so many stairs he loses count, until they reach the highest level of the castle.

Once they’re at the top, they pause to catch their breath, Nines sending Gavin a rather annoyed look.

“I promise it’ll be worth it,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

“What will?”

Gavin starts toward the wooden door a few paces away from the staircase, pushes it open.

“The view.”

A cool breeze enters the room, kisses the skin on Nines’ face, making his eyes watery. He blinks the tears away, pads across the room to join the beast outside on the balcony. From here, he can see the way the land stretches before him, evergreen trees like pillars touching the heavens, wearing white sleeves.

In the distance, the golden sun lowers itself behind grassy hills, where the castle’s cursed winter cannot reach. Streaks of orange and yellow burst from its core, chasing away the usual blue, spilling as if poured from an urn.

It is utterly breathtaking, the view from the top.

Nines’ breaths come out like ghosts in the winter chill as he takes the scenery in, and he’s sure his cheeks are dusted a rosy pink, fingers feeling numb, but the florist is too captivated to care.

He sees Gavin lean over the stone ledge from the corner of his eye, crossing his arms. The jewel of his necklace dangles from its thin chain, catching the light. Nines goes to touch his own gemstone, heart thumping in his chest, warmth filling all the empty spaces he’s gained throughout the years.

The sun lowers completely, its light snuffed out like a candle, and then the darkness comes, although it is not alone. Soon, the sky fills with diamonds, shining and shimmering, while the moon lifts, finally showing its face as if someone had pulled the curtains back.

Suddenly, a flash of yellow catches Nines’ eye, and then another.

Fireflies dance around them, blinking and lighting up the dark space, adding a sort of comforting touch to the cold night.

Nines twists his brow, perplexed. “How? At this altitude...not to mention the snow,” he trails off, gaze still fixated on the glowing bugs.

“Shit’s kind of weird here,” Gavin says. “I saw a snake once, in the courtyard, even though it’s always winter here.”

“How peculiar.”

The beast grunts in agreement, and they linger there for a few more moments, until Gavin says, “Alright. I’m cold as fuck, let’s go back.”

The second they enter Gavin’s room, Nines is quick to haul the beast up and carry him to the bed, where the florist pushes him down to lay on his back. He hovers over Gavin, a smirk on his lips. Their lips are close, almost close enough so they can kiss.

“Thank you for showing me that, Gavin,” Nines tells him, and for once, he’s telling the truth.

He watches the beast lick his lips, flushing in the candlelight. “Figured you were the type to like things like that.”

Nines’ smirk fades into a careful grin that he can’t control, subtle yet genuine. Dipping his head down, his mouth catches Gavin’s, and they kiss. The florist’s heart swells, and it is in this moment when all the remaining ice coating his body melts away, his skin so relieved to finally breathe again.

Nines comes to a full stand, peels his snug turtleneck off, which lands somewhere on the floor. He is quite satisfied to see Gavin’s eyes grow hazy as they travel over his body.

The beast sits up to remove his own shirt, flings it across the room, then lays back on his elbows, lifting a brow at Nines.

“The hell are you waiting for?” he taunts, one end of his mouth stretching into a crooked grin as he stares up at the florist.

Nines exhales through his nose, hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of Gavin’s pants, glancing up for permission.

“Are you certain you want this?” he asks, and finds his answer when the beast lifts his hips to help Nines slide his pants off. The florist does not hesitate to slot between Gavin’s open legs, lowering his head to press a kiss to the inside of one of the beast’s thighs.

Nines travels closer to his groin, breath hot against the front of Gavin’s briefs, making him shudder and curl his toes. The florist licks him through the fabric, nose pressed against his filling cock, keeping his eyes connected with Gavin’s.

“Nines…” the beast whimpers, gripping hard at the sheets.

“Hold on, darling. Let me take my time with you,” he hushes, sliding Gavin’s briefs off completely. Nines licks a stripe up the beast’s cock, placing a hand at the base and squeezing, earning a choked moan. Nines thumbs Gavin’s slit, collects the slick leaking out, and brings it to his mouth to taste. It is both salty and bitter on his tongue, and he can’t help but want more.

The florist hikes Gavin’s knees up over his shoulders, folding him like paper as he dips his head to press his tongue to the beast’s entrance. The response he gets is immediate; Gavin throws his head back, thighs shaking, a strangled gasp hitching in his throat, knuckles turning white as bone.

Nines pulls away for a moment. “Where is the oil?” he asks roughly, his face a mess.

“Drawer,” is the throaty reply.

He is grateful for his long limbs, doesn’t have to dislodge himself from Gavin to fetch the little tin of oil. Coating his fingers, he presses one against the beast’s rim, looks to his eyes for permission, ever a stunning green.

Gavin nods, letting out a breath as Nines pushes it in, slowly, carefully, as to not hurt him. He kisses the beast’s shaking thighs in the meantime, soft and tender to make him relax.

Nines adds a second finger, stretching him out with patience, loving the way Gavin pants quietly, mouth open and breathless.

_You’re beautiful._

The florist doesn’t even color at the thought, simply welcomes it as he pushes in a third into the tight heat, shifting so he can lick and suckle at Gavin’s cock. This draws a loud moan from the beast, hips bucking up for more.

“Patience, darling,” Nines teases softly, lips hovering over Gavin’s length, just barely grazing him. He angles his fingers, easing him open further, continues to mouth and lave at the beast’s cock until his breaths come out quick and desperate.

Gavin shudders as he comes, clenches down hard onto Nines’ fingers, white spilling across his stomach. His head is thrown back into the sheets, lips parted in a silent moan, and with his skin flushed that pretty shade of red all Nines can think of is devouring him.

The florist gives his cock a couple of lazy pumps to help him ride out his orgasm, gently slipping his fingers free. Gavin cups a hand to his cheek and pulls him down for a kiss so tender it fills Nines with absolute bliss.

The beast sighs against his lips, lowers his legs to wrap around Nines’ waist.

“Hurry up, the night won’t last forever,” Gavin tuts, sweat dotting along his brow.

“We can stop here if you’re tired, Gavin,” Nines tells him, despite the uncomfortable tent in his pants.

“I’m not an old man, I can handle it.”

Nines gives him a hard stare, but relents after a tense moment.

“Alright, darling.”

Gavin unravels his legs to let the florist shuck his pants and briefs off, sucks in a breath through his teeth when Nines’ cock is revealed in the light. He notices the beast’s hesitance and bites his lip almost sheepishly.

“I am more than certain that I prepped you enough. There is no need to worry, darling,” Nines says, caressing Gavin’s hip with a thumb.

The beast flicks his gaze up, eyes swimming with countless emotions.

“I trust you.”

Guilt pierces his gut like a fine-toothed blade; he almost staggers from the brunt impact of the words, but keeps his face from showing it. Nines swallows around another lump, and nods.

“Thank you, Gavin,” he whispers, voice cracking. 

 _STOP!_ a voice in his head screams, different from the one before. _If you do this, there will be no turning back._

Nines ignores it like he did the first one, despite the prickling sensation he feels creeping up his spine. The florist knows he shouldn’t carry on, every logical and coherent thought screaming at him to stop before he ruins himself, ruins himself because he’d lay with a _beast_.

But there is something about Gavin that is so intoxicating that Nines can’t get enough of. It is beyond him how he could recognize the beast by how his feet struck the floor in heavy thuds, by the way his skin smelled, doused with coffee beans, the rough drag of his calloused hands; gods, even the way his breaths came, calm or absolutely livid, Nines would know it was him.

He guesses himself that he would know Gavin blind or deaf, to the utter edge of the world, even in the loneliness of death.

Nines lines his cock up so that the tip presses against Gavin’s entrance, aching so terribly it takes all of himself to keep from thrusting in. Instead, Nines pushes in slowly, allowing the beast to relax as he fucks him open, meets Gavin halfway for a sloppy kiss.

Nines breathes out roughly through his nose as he settles in completely, savors the way Gavin feels around him, squeezing so _nicely_ it makes him feel drunk. He presses his face into the beast’s neck, leaves a tender kiss on his pulse point, sighing quietly as he draws his hips back before thrusting back in.

Gavin is a whimpering mess beneath him, clawing at his back as curses falls from his mouth, legs coming back up to pull Nines closer, closer, like he could never have enough of him.

The florist keeps a steady rhythm, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air.

“F-fuck,” Gavin drawls, breathing harshly, throwing his head back for what seems like the upteenth time, hands gripping at the taut muscles of Nines’ biceps. The bed creaks under their weight.

Heat pools and coils like a bonfire in his gut, burning hotter as he reaches his end. Nines’ thrusts become harder, more desperate and sloppily, relishing in the addictive feeling of Gavin, Gavin, Gavin.

Something wet hits his nose, and he stills completely.

“Gavin?” he calls worriedly, panting slightly, wondering if he was too rough. When Nines lifts his head, his legs nearly give out at the sight.

The beast is weeping, tears spilling down his face like rain, evident even with the arm draped across his eyes.

Nines eases the arm away, unveiling the glossy green underneath it. He caresses Gavin’s cheek with his hand, swipes a tear away from under his eye.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks quietly, already starting to pull out.

The legs around his waist are quick to tug him back, not letting him leave.

“N-no,” Gavin says, voice thick with emotion. “I’m just—I’m just really fucking happy, right now.” He whispers the last part, as if he’s terrified to say it at all.

Nines feels his heart flutter, veins thrumming with what he thinks must be happiness.

“I see,” he breathes, a smile pulling at his lips. He leans down to kiss Gavin, soft and lovingly, thrusting back in with a newfound rhythm.

At some point, their hands find each other, holding tightly. 

“G-Gavin, darling,” Nines moans airily, hips stuttering once, twice, before he’s spilling into the beast, muffles a low groan into Gavin’s neck.

The beast reaches his own release soon after, comes a second time, a shuddering wreck, a few more tears slipping down his cheeks.

Nines slumps against Gavin, thoroughly exhausted, and the pair takes a moment to catch their breaths. Eventually, the florist finds the courtesy to roll off of Gavin and lie next to him, tucks an arm under his neck, pulling him close to his sweaty chest.

He presses a kiss to the beast’s forehead. “We need to clean up.”

Gavin offers a noncommittal grunt in response, though neither of them make an effort to move. The beast curls against Nines’ side, horns brushing against his jaw, stubble pricking the smooth expanse of his skin.

Oddly enough, the florist cares very little about the mess they’ve made, as sticky and unpleasant as it is. His old self would be disgusted, being this close and sweaty to another person, letting them inside his imperishable walls, walls he only ever put down for Connor, and even then there was some hesitance. 

As Gavin starts to snore, Nines wonders if this is what love feels like.

 

* * *

 

In the cold, forbidden west wing, the pocket watch strikes five, its glow growing dimmer inside the glass dome.

 

* * *

 

They decide to bathe together when morning comes. Gavin’s tub is built like a pool, more than large enough to hold them both, steam rising and filling the room. Rose petals of all colors float atop the water’s surface, smelling of a garden bursting with life.

Nines takes a rag and lathers it with soap, cleans himself quietly. “Would you like me to read to you tonight?”

Gavin, seated on the edge of the pool, soap in his hair, pauses, pitcher held high above his head. His features soften considerably after a wave of surprise passes.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. That’ll be, uh, great, actually.” The beast rinses the suds out of his hair, now a deep brown umber and dripping with water. 

Nines washes the soap from his body and asks, “Are you sore?”

Gavin smooths his wet hair back, a little embarrassed. “Why? You gonna help nurse me back to health?”

The florist already has his lips pulled into a smirk. “If you require it, yes.” A hand slides to the back of his neck, tugging him forward, and he meets the beast’s lips eagerly, as if starved.

When they amble out from the lavatory, the smell of roses stuck to their skin, Nines presses his forehead to Gavin’s, both of them still wet and naked, water dripping from their hair.

Their arms wrap around one another on instinct, the tips of their fingers exploring the other’s skin, memorizing each and every scar or mole.

“Shall we go to the garden?” Nines asks fondly, eyes boring into the beast’s own, mesmerized by the little flecks of hazel and gold.

“The garden?” Gavin repeats, confused. “Why there?”

“I want to teach you something.”

The beast tilts his head. “Is this a date?”

“Most certainly,” Nines answers.

“I dunno,” Gavin pulls away, taps a finger to his chin. “Might be busy.”

“Oh, darling, we both know that’s a lie.”

He gets a grin in return.

Once dressed, they walk to the garden together, hands linked.

“What’re you gonna be teaching me, anyway?” Gavin questions, pushing the door open to reveal a world so unlike the one they live in, not a speck of snow dusting the ground.

“Flowers.”

“...that’s it? Just,” Gavin gestures to the garden, “flowers?”

Nines finds a knife scattered near a bed of roses, crouches low to take it in his hand.

“Well, flower crowns. They are popular with the younger girls,” he explains. “Do you mind if I pick a few?”

“This entire garden’s yours, babe. I just happen to be standing in it.”

Nines snorts, surprising both him and Gavin.

“Cute laugh.”

“Shut up. Come here and help me.”

Gavin comes to a crouch beside him, and they spend the next couple of moments with their arms elbows deep in shrubs and dirt, Nines pointing at which ones to pick for the crowns. The pair throw the flowers into a pile, a mix of roses and other, smaller plants. 

He teaches the beast how to weave and tuck, pull and twist the stems, guiding Gavin’s fingers with his own hand, minding him to be gentle. They work around the first crown together until the beast grasps the hang of it. The crown is nowhere near perfect, some of the stems poking out of the main braid, a few buds crooked here and there, petals loose and falling out.

Such a thing would make Nines sneer at the sloppiness of it, and he would never think to wear an accessory of such low quality, but when Gavin leans forward to place it on his head, tucking a strand of his hair back into place, the florist finds that he is more than willing to bear it.

“Pink is a good color on you,” Gavin tells him, leaning back to observe.

“Is it?” Nines reaches up, fingers brushing against a petal, soft like silk.

“Yeah,” he breathes, a bit breathless.

“I think red is a rather stunning color on you, yourself.” The florist plucks a few crimson roses from the pile, all differing in size, and is quick to pick out other flowers and leaves to complement them, a practiced talent, a routine he’s very well accustomed to.

Nines weaves the plants together much quicker than Gavin had, nimble fingers wasting no time in tucking and twisting, the braid looking clean and defined. He beckons Gavin to come closer, carefully places the intricate crown on his head with a visible softness, as if the beast was a rose itself.

Nines thumbs away the dirt smeared on Gavin’s cheek, offers a small smile that he thinks says more than it gives away, more than he allows himself to give away.

Nonetheless, he gets a feeling Gavin knows, without either of them having to say anything.

“I kind of feel like a teenager,” the beast says suddenly, hand rising to lightly touch the braided stems, fingers running over each bump and crevice. 

They laugh at the absurdity of it all, chins tucked to their chests as they snort, shoulders shaking, petals falling around them in delicate flurries. Men, as they are, frolicking around in a garden making garlands better suited for young girls, blushing like children. It is an idea so bizarre that Nines has not once thought of it, as much as he lets his mind wander.

 _This is it,_ the calmer voice says. _This is what you’ve been waiting your whole life for._

Nines can’t help but agree, feeling like he could conquer the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Kara and Alice are a makeshift sort of family, even more so when Luther joined them. They were chased away from their old home and found refuge in the Kamski-Reed abode, where they were all officially hired and added to the staff. Since then, the trio have all lived happily, content with each other and everyone else in the castle, even while bearing the curse. Kara and Luther are both in charge of the kitchen, while Alice is being taught the ropes, Sumo a great supporter by her side.


	7. Listen, Carefully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession is whispered in the dead of night.

****It is only moments after the sun had risen when Tina bursts into the room, rattling the door on its hinges. The handle slams into the wall from the force, sure to leave a nasty dent. On the bed, Gavin yelps in surprise as he’s pulled from his slumber, rolls off the edge and tumbles to the floor, taking the blanket with him.

“The hell?!”

“Morning, Princess!” Tina greets loudly, tearing the curtains apart to let the light trickle in, almost blinding as Gavin squints at the assault, hair a mess and sticking up in every direction. He eyes the bed, now devoid of Nines.

“If you’re looking for Prince Charming, he’s in the library. Waiting.” She narrows her eyes, gives him a suggestive look that makes his face color.

Gavin lifts himself off of the floor, chucks the blanket back onto the bed.

“I’m gonna kill you, asshole,” he growls, ambling over to the drawers to retrieve a new shirt, slips it on. “Why’d you come in here, anyway?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

“You think you’re funny?”

“Hilarious.” Tina sniffs at the air, crinkles her nose. “Smells like sex.”

“GET OUT!”

Gavin clenches his teeth as she laughs, stomping past her to get to the library. Tina follows him, closing the door behind them.

“Just wanted to tell you we’re going out today. All of us,” she says as they walk, stuffing her hands in her pockets. He saw a glimpse of them earlier; they’d gotten worse, the patches of white engulfing most of her skin. The curse spread further up her neck as well, only sparing the lump of her windpipe.

Gavin’s stomach lurches deeply, heavy with guilt. He pushes the feeling down. They’d be okay. Nines was here and the curse would break, even if it hasn’t already. But even so, Gavin can’t help but wonder why. He’s sure what they have is something genuine, and although neither of them has ever said it, Gavin knows. He knows, and maybe so does Nines. He has to.

He _has_ to.

Perhaps the curse is simply taking its time, waiting for their relationship to bloom even further. Yes, that must be the case. Gavin can’t think of any other reason, unless Elijah was lying to him, lying like he did to so many of their guests.

Gavin balls his hands into tight fists, doesn’t acknowledge Tina’s stone-speckled hand waving in front of his face until she delivers a firm slap to his back, careening him forward.

“You trying to kill me, Chen?” he snaps, shoving her away.

“If I was, I’d never admit it. Why’re you spacing out for?”

“No fuckin’ reason.”

“Yeah? You thinking of some frilly little fantasies—” Gavin bares his teeth, walks a little faster.

“So you’re all going out?” he asks, hoping Tina lets the topic drop. To his surprise, she does, though her eyes narrow considerably, suspicious.

“There’s a festival in a nearby town. Alice wants to check it out.”

“She didn’t invite me and Nines? I’m hurt.”

“Apparently she wanted to give you guys some alone time,” Tina replies, sending him a playful wink. “Wash the sheets after you’re done.”

“Fuck off,” Gavin grumbles weakly, not having anything better to say while they turn a corner.

Just as he thought they were done, Tina brings a hand down hard onto his shoulder, and whether it’s because of the stone or her brute strength, he isn’t sure, but it hurts like hell. Gavin grits his teeth, utters out a painful _what_.

“Ralph had an excellent idea this morning,” she chirps, rubbing his shoulder, as if apologizing.

“That’s rare.”

“He said we should host a dance.”

Gavin’s face twists.

“ _I_ think it’s a good idea. So does everyone else,” she tells him, then pokes his arm with her elbow, “Nines might, too.”

“He could be a shit dancer for all I know,” Gavin scoffs, all while imagining Nines dressed up, offering a hand and inviting him to dance. The mere thought of it made his chest tighten pleasantly, a smile threatening to pull at his lips.

“Good thing he has you, then!” Tina pips, grinning carelessly, as much as the curse would allow.

“Fucking fantastic.”

They part ways when they reach the main staircase, Tina sending him a look as she steps down to join the others, who’re already waiting by the doors. Gavin receives all too many teasing comments and suggestive winks, has to remind them there’s a child in the room for them to stop.

When his friends leave, he tries to shake away the remaining blush from his face, fanning himself while he walks to the library.

The beast pushes the door open, peeks his head inside. Nines is seated at their usual couch, book in his hands, a cup of what must be coffee placed on the table in front of him.

“Mornin’, babe,” he greets, already feeling the butterflies fluttering in his gut. He’s not so sure how, but the florist makes him so _giddy,_ like he was a teenager all over again.

“Good morning, darling,” Nines replies, eyes jumping up from his book. “I made you coffee.”

“Thanks,” Gavin grins, scratching at the scar that runs across his nose, a nervous tick. He crosses the room quickly, eager to have his drink. “We’re, uh, thinking of having a dance, by the way.

“A dance?” Nines asks, handing Gavin his coffee. Behind him, morning light pours through the large windows, warm and inviting. 

The beast takes the drink gratefully. “Yeah,” he says, seating himself next to Nines and taking a sip of his earthy coffee, “we haven’t had one in years, since...y’know.”

“I see. Is there a special occasion?”

“This one’s just for fun.”

The florist brings his knuckles to his lips, seems to think carefully before he admits, “I don’t know how to dance. Do you?”

Gavin snorts into his cup. “Obviously. Wouldn’t be a prince if I couldn’t.” He turns his body to face Nines, legs folded underneath him comfortably. “I could, uh, teach you, if you want.” The beast tucks some hair behind his ear—it’s grown a bit since they’ve first met—smiling sheepishly.

Nines’ mouth lifts slightly, a rare smile. “I would like that,” he tells Gavin, which widens the beast’s grin, growing more confident as he reaches over to set his coffee down. It clinks against the table.

“It’s settled, then. Stand up, perfect prick.” Gavin slaps the florist’s knee as he stands, ambling over to an open space in the library, big enough for two. Nines leaves the book on the couch and walks over, crossing the room in long strides.

Gavin guides Nines’ arm to the middle of his back, bringing his own to rest on the florist’s shoulder. Their hands come together as Gavin starts for them, stepping back and taking Nines with him.

“You gotta move like you’re making a square,” the beast instructs, demonstrating for him. Gavin makes sure to begin slowly so Nines can learn properly, helps him regain his balance when he stumbles.

The beast aids Nines through the steps even a school child would know, Gavin’s body moving with polished skill—he was taught to dance at a young age, after all—while Nines’ form was sloppy, his feet occasionally bumping into Gavin’s as he misunderstood their rhythm. 

“This is ridiculous,” the florist mumbles, brows knitting together in frustration after he messes up a fourth time, a slight color to his cheeks that has Gavin biting back a laugh. Nines’ gaze is trained to the ground, at their feet, concentrating almost desperately. 

“Patience, babe. You’ll get it eventually.” Gavin guides him through the motions, each step and turn, twirl or spin. Their dancing grows more complicated as Nines grows accustomed to it, stumbling less, his body not as stiff.

They manage to complete the first part of the dance without any errors, their palms sweaty at how hard Nines was clutching Gavin’s in his concentration. 

The florist takes his eyes off the ground, opting instead to stare at Gavin, a little breathless. There is something like pride swimming in the icy grey, lips quirked up into a slight grin as if to say _I did it_. 

“Handsome fucker,” the beast mutters, very much liking the way the light is hitting Nines’ face, bringing out every freckle and mole, making his hair shine like copper. 

“And you say I’m the sap,” the florist quips, smug.

“Must’ve rubbed off on me,” is Gavin’s cocky reply, a grin etched into his face. “We’re not done yet. I wanna make sure Tina’s jaw hits the floor after our dance is over.”

“Must you make it a competition, Gavin?”

“That’s not the attitude of a winner.”

They are quite tired by the end of it, agreeing to continue practice tomorrow. In the kitchen, Gavin swallows mouthfuls of cold water, would’ve choked had it not been for the firm slaps to the back from Nines.

“How are you barely sweating?” the beast pants, wiping away the drops that spilled from his lips with the back of his hand. Gavin can feel the sweat collecting at his hairline, soaking into his hair. 

“I am regularly active,” Nines says, sipping at his own water, leaned against a counter. There is a hint of sweat glistening above his lip, but nowhere else.

Gavin thinks back to the night they’d laid with each other, remembers distinctly how Nines’ muscles flexed whenever he moved, skin pulled taut across his body. He feels his face heat at the memory, tries to hide it behind his glass as he brings it to his mouth again.

“Are you alright, Gavin? You look rather red.” A hand comes up to settle on his forehead, as if checking for a fever. The beast swats it away, coloring a deeper shade of scarlet.

“F-fucking peachy, asshole!”

Nines looks unconvinced, but relents. “If you say so, darling.”

Gavin ignores the fluttering in his stomach, pushes himself off the counter after dropping his cup in the sink.

“I’ve noticed it’s rather quiet today,” Nines says as they step out of the kitchen.

“Yeah, they’re all out at a festival doing god knows what.”

The florist hums. “I suppose that leaves just the two of us here.”

Gavin swallows thickly, fights down another blush as he thinks back to Tina’s teasing remarks.

“I-I guess,” he mumbles lamely, hunching his shoulders up.

“What would you like to do today, Gavin?” Nines asks while they walk about aimlessly.

The beast scratches the back of his head. “Mm, whatever the hell you want, babe.”

He receives a rather troublesome-looking grin.

 

* * *

 

“Are you kidding me.”

“I am not.”

“We’re _adults_ , Nines,” Gavin says in disapproval, scanning the sea of pillows and cushions the florist had pulled out.

“You said we could do anything I wanted,” Nines reminds him, the little prick. “Now help me build this.”

The florist eventually wins Gavin over, and they start assembling the many pillows into a makeshift fortress—a large one, at that. Big enough to fit Gavin in his beast form.

Nines adds a few chairs to the whole thing, tells him it’ll help hold the blankets up. Gavin grumbles quietly to himself as he arranges the entrance, layering together cushions and pillows.

“Oh, we’ll need some light,” Nines says, shaking out a thin sheet to drape above the fortress.

The beast clicks his tongue in annoyance, earning himself a disapproving glare from Nines.

“We better fuck in this at least once,” Gavin tells him blankly once he returns with a few lanterns and candles. 

“That can be arranged,” the florist answers easily, not looking up from where he’s crouched on the other side of the fortress. Nines rises, walks along their makeshift tent, presumably inspecting it. Dumbass.

He takes the lanterns from Gavin before diving underneath the tarp hanging from the fort’s entrance. The beast groans to himself before following suit, knees cracking as he bends down to crawl.

“It’s still morning, so we won’t need too much light,” Nines explains, starting up the gas lantern, its luminescence creating shadows that dance along the walls of their fortress.

“I guess it’s kind of cool,” Gavin admits, admiring their work. “Why’d we make it so big, though?”

Nines smirks, eyes narrowing. “We need space if we want to ‘fuck.’”

“Oh.”

“Not now, though, I’m afraid. You interrupted my reading, and it was just getting interesting.” The florist crawls past him, presumably to retrieve his book, not even sparing Gavin a glance.

“Motherfucker.”

The beast rolls over, limbs spread out like a starfish as he stares up at the droopy ceiling, scowls at it. He scoffs again, mutters a few insults directed at Nines under his breath. Natural light pierces through the fortress with the florist’s return, book tucked snugly beneath his arm.

Nines seats himself besides Gavin, not even acknowledging his displeasure, and props up a few pillows to lean against.

“What’re you reading, asshole?” Gavin asks grumpily, still splayed out on the cushioned floor.

“ _Julius Caesar,_ ” Nines replies, licking his thumb to turn a page. It makes the beast’s nose wrinkle in disgust—Nines can act so _old_ sometimes.

“The guy who got stabbed to death by his friends?”

“Indeed.”

“How poetic,” Gavin snorts, folding his hands under his head as some sort of headrest despite him drowning in a sea of pillows. He shuts his eyes, ignoring the uncomfortable churn of his stomach; he hasn’t actually eaten yet. The beast wasn’t even aware of his hunger until now, too enraptured by Nines to notice.

He has a very strong urge to beat the shit out of his heart.

“Are you hungry, Gavin?” the florist questions, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“You a mindreader or something?”

“Not quite, but I am rather good at reading you.”

Gavin _is_ hungry—starving, really—but he’s too comfortable to get up. He doesn’t feel like walking all the way down to the kitchen, making himself some food, then walking all the way back to the library again. It was one of those days where Gavin only wanted to sleep in and laze around. He’s starting to think the fort wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Nah,” the beast answers, right when his stomach decides to rumble quite loudly.

“I really do hope lying to yourself was worth the embarrassment, darling,” Nines, the perfect prick, says, and Gavin hears his book snap shut.

“It was,” he bites back, turning to lay on his side, facing away from Nines as to not let him see the color on his cheeks. Gavin hears a curt sigh escape the florist, then some shuffling.

“I’ll go get you some food, then,” Nines tells him, and the tarp flutters shut.

Gavin opens his eyes once Nines leaves, stares at the bland white of the tarp as he mulls over all the little _what ifs_ in his head, his eyes empty.

_What if he doesn’t actually like me?_

_What if he’s lying?_

_What if he isn’t_ the one?

_What if, what if, what if._

He sits up, unable to stop the doubt festering like a spoiled wound in his chest.

 

* * *

 

The sky colors a deep gold as evening comes. Tina and everyone else has yet to return; Gavin hopes they’re having more fun than he is. They are in the fort again, having just eaten their supper. Nines has splayed out a plethora of books, all of which with many detailed descriptions about plants.

“Chamomile is popular for dealing with stress and coaxing relaxation by being steeped in tea. The flowers grow primarily in meadows away from cities…” Gavin drowns Nines’s voice out, the florist too captivated in his own reading to care.

He’s laying on his stomach with his cheek pressed against his palm, nearly falling asleep from the way Nines drones on and on about flowers. Gavin tries his best to listen, but it’s all so damn _boring._ The beast has never liked listening to lectures—never really liked learning; he just couldn’t see the appeal of it—ever since he was a pampered little thing, when his chin was still covered in peach fuzz.

Elijah would do the same thing. Talk about his findings and lessons from this woman he’d met when he was in town one day almost feverishly, like he’d discovered something phenomenal. And maybe he did, but Gavin didn’t pay much attention to Elijah’s one-sided discussions either. They’ve become blurry memories now, rusted things from the past.

In a way, he’s glad he doesn’t remember.

“...and in a recent study chamomile flowers have been shown to not be at all effective in treating wounds—Gavin! Are you listening?” The beast jolts as if struck by lightning. He meets Nines’ annoyed gaze and sends his own look of irritation.

“‘Course I am,” he mutters, scratching his scar. How faded it’s gotten over the years.

“I am making a true effort to teach you, Gavin. The least you can do is listen,” Nines tells him, a slight change of tone laced in his otherwise smooth voice. Though Nines doesn’t show it on his face, the beast can hear it in his voice. The unhappiness.

Gavin sits up completely, then, swallows around the lump in his throat as he inches closer to the florist, peers down at the yellowed pages bearing flower sketches.

“Alright, alright. I’m listening, babe. For real, this time.” He means it.

The beast sees Nines send him a dubious look from out the corner of his eye, so he tilts his head to rest against Nines’ shoulder, hoping it would reassure him. Gavin supposes it does, because the florist presses some of his own weight on him, closing what little space was left between them even further.

Gavin’s heartbeat quickens simply by them sharing heat, curled up together in a stupid pillow fort, reading old books about flowers in shitty candlelight.

His fingers buzz with bliss, excitement, and maybe even love, if he’s feeling brave enough.

“Flowers can symbolize certain things depending on their color,” Nines starts, flipping to a new page. “For example, a white rose can mean innocence and purity, while red ones can mean love and passion—”

“That’s mushy as shit,” Gavin mumbles.

“—but when paired together, they stand for unity between couples—”

“That’s even more mushy—”

“And yellow roses with red tips symbolize falling in love—”

“You trying to seduce me, babe? ‘Cause this is really—”

Nines lets the book fall from his grasp, grabs Gavin by the collar of his shirt and pulls him forward into a kiss, silencing him. The beast is eager, crawls his way into Nines’ lap, his arms coming to wrap around the florist’s slim waist.

Nines tugs on the hem of Gavin’s shirt. “Off,” he says lowly, parting for only a moment before he’s kissing the beast again, as if they wouldn’t see tomorrow.

Gavin is more than happy to oblige, flings his shirt off and tosses it behind him. Cool, slim fingers ghost over his skin, up his spine and down his stomach. He shivers at every touch, panting against Nines’ reddened lips, glistening with spit even in such poor lighting.

“Nines,” the beast says, a one-word plea, and that’s all he has to utter before the florist is pushing him down on his back, slotting himself between Gavin’s legs. He can already feel Nines’ cock pressing into his thigh, hard even under a layer of fabric.

They do it slowly, that night. All tender touches and whispered confessions. Nines takes his time with Gavin, unravels the beast at his own pace, making him whimper and arch his back, their skin shinning with sweat.

Every little jolt of pleasure makes Gavin’s toes curl, has him biting his lip and clenching his fists. He pleads for more, and Nines gives it to him. The beast takes everything greedily, relishes in the feeling of Nines littering his neck with bruises and bite marks, which are sure to greet him later in the morning.

It is hours later when they finish, the moon having well settled itself in the night sky. Gavin isn’t sure if the others have gotten back yet, but he’s too tired to dwell on it for long.

He’s on his side, head resting on the bare expanse of Nines’ chest. The beast plays with the chiseled emerald sitting on damp skin, twirls it between his fingers as he lets his fatigue take him.

“I used to make forts like this with my brother all the time when we were kids.”

Nines’ voice tows him away from sleep, like it always does. Gavin listens intently; it is not often that the florist shares parts of his past.

“Did you?” Gavin prompts quietly, tilting his head up to look him in the eye. They are uncharacteristically soft, lacking their usual icy glare. He decides he likes it just as much.

“Yes,” Nines nods, looking a bit sad. “We would stay up late and study plants like this; Amanda would give us quite the lecture afterwards, but we would still do it nonetheless.”

Gavin lets out a quiet curse, “Fuck. I’m so sorry, babe. I didn’t know it was so important to you.”

Nines kisses his forehead, leaves him feeling giddy again. “It’s alright, darling. I’m glad we did this today. It...means a lot. So, thank you.”

“We can do shit like this whenever you want,” Gavin tells him around a yawn. He fights through his exhaustion, blinks his weary eyes awake when they start to droop. “Flower crowns or pillow tents or whatever the hell else you wanna do, we’ll do it. Just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”

He can at least give him that much, for as long as he is able.

And unsurprisingly, Nines may not be the one to break the curse, but he’s the only one Gavin wants.

The florist is quiet for a long while, and for a moment the beast thinks he fell asleep. But Nines’ breaths have yet to even out, so he tries to stay awake in case Nines says anything else, in case he needs Gavin to be there and listen. He soon finds that his weariness is bearing itself too heavily upon him, and he finally lets his eyes close.

The beast is on the brink of submitting to his much needed slumber when he hears, very softly, lowly, delicately,

“I think I may love you, Gavin.”

He sleeps, and wakes the next morning thinking it was only a silly little dream. 

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after that night, the season shifts to spring. It has always been such an odd concept to him; the seasons. Like a never ending cycle of living and dying, life and beauty flourishes during the warmer seasons, then begins to wither at the first breath of autumn, only to come back again later, perhaps even brighter than before.

If there’s any sort of deeper meaning to that, Nines doesn’t search for it. Instead, he thinks about how the shop will hit its peak this season, thanks to all the rain and sun. How bushels and cratefulls of flowers and other plants will sell, how Connor will have to run everything himself, hurrying, hurrying, hurrying, to keep Amanda pleased.

Nines scowls at the mere thought of that witch, his eyes flashing with contempt.

He is in one of the castle’s many bathrooms, sat on the floor with his legs stretched out before him. Gavin is somewhere downstairs with the others, making quite the ruckus. Nines came up here to escape, to breathe a little bit, He needs some time away from him. From the beast.

The back of his head thumps against the wall as he thinks, his clenched fists shaking with countless emotions; rage, frustration, disappointment, uncertainty, **shame.** Nines has no idea what he’s feeling anymore—he doesn’t know what he’s _supposed_ to feel, or say, or do.

What he _should_ do is return to Detroit.

But he’s not so sure he _wants_ to.

Nines wants to throttle someone, perhaps smash a few vases or turn over tables. Punching a dent in one of the expensive castle walls would do well to calm him, he thinks.

He is still hung up over the fact that he accidentally told Gavin he might love him. Nines hadn’t meant to let it slip; it was late and he was tired and buzzing with all sorts of things he’s never felt back in Detroit. There is something about laying with Gavin that has him wishing it would last forever—wishing this could be his future, even if it wasn’t what he wanted in the beginning.

Nines chews on his lip, tastes the blood on his tongue.

“Fuck,” he curses simply, into the empty bathroom.

He didn’t think he’d find so much warmth in a castle ensconced by snow.

A knock at the door, two raps, then a voice.

“You okay, babe?”

Nines startles, jerking himself up on shaky knees. He smooths out his shirt, runs his hand through his hair. There’s no mirror, but he hopes he doesn’t look as disheveled as he feels.

“I’m alright, darling,” he replies, unlocking the door. The florist offers Gavin a slight smile as he walks out, the beast following behind until they’re side-by-side.

“We can turn in early if you’re tired,” Gavin suggests, pulling him back by the arm. They stand paces away from the door leading out of their bedroom.

“It’s fine.”

“You look like shit.”

_Damn it._

“I was going to make some tea before going to bed,” Nines says.

“I’ll get it for you,” Gavin proposes, then scratches the scar that dances faintly across the bridge of his nose, the same scar Nines has kissed too many times to count. “We might have some chamomile. You like it sweet, right?”

In his chest, the florist’s heart lurches.

“You were paying attention after all,” Nines stammers, voice lilted with obvious disbelief.

“It doesn’t take a genius to know you have a sweet tooth, babe,” Gavin says nonchalantly.

“No, you remembered the flower…I thought it was boring you. ”

The beast has a sheepish look on his face, shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, it’s important to you, so…”

Nines kisses him.

When they part, Gavin’s cheeks are tinted that lovely shade of pink as he sputters, “I’ll uh, go get your tea.”

Nines watches him leave the room, can’t quite seem to shake off the sudden fondness blooming in his breast.

_You do love him._

But still he feels something pulling him back, like there was a leash tied to his throat, only letting him get so far. There is an odd prickling sensation on the skin around his neck, which soon migrates to his temple, throbbing violently, once, twice.

Nines breathes in sharply, clutching the area, spine curving forward in response to the unexpected pain. It leaves just as quickly as it came, like the wind.

He stands there not knowing what on earth that was.

It’s not long after that when Gavin returns with a steaming cup of tea. Nines has settled himself on their bed, book in his lap, but not quite reading. He closes it shut when Gavin dips his weight onto the bed, tosses it to the nightside table.

The beast passes him the cup, and he takes it gratefully, already smelling its sweetness.

“Thank you, darling,” Nines says. He means it with every part of himself; not just for the tea, but for everything.

“Anything for you, babe,” Gavin says. “Want me to read to you tonight?”

“I can do it after I finish this.”

“You look tired. I’ll do it.” The beast leaves no room for argument, ushers Nines to hand him the book he’d tossed away.

Gavin starts to read where they’d left off last time, his voice deep and scratchy from all the smoke Nines catches him puff out when he thinks no one is looking.

“ _Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper_.”

He listens to him read, occasionally sipping at his earthy tea, sweet like the kisses they share. His chest feels warm, and he guesses himself that it isn’t the tea’s doing. How nice his own skin feels without all the ice and frost. How peculiar that this beast of a man, who has a temper like forest fire, can so easily strip down all the walls he’d put up, as if they were made of sticks.

Nines finds that he can’t do much to stop him. He merely watches as they crumble and burn down, Gavin walking in and passing by all the debris and wreckage like he wasn’t the one who made such a mess. Light spills in through the large crater in whatever was left of the poor wall. A hand reaches out to him, small and rugged, but safe. Nines takes it, smooth skin against calloused palms. He takes it, and doesn’t let go, even as he’s guided out of the dark and quiet place he’s barricaded himself in for as long as he could remember.

The light is utterly blinding, but the hand around his own doesn’t loosen its grip. Just keeps tugging him forward with no real plan of where to go or what to do. They step past the ruins of Nines’ walls until the hulk of it becomes but a blur left behind them.

And then suddenly, they are back in their bedroom, the beast still reading from the book. Gavin’s hand is warm in his, as if the forest fire raged even outside his body. Nines’ tea has grown cold in his palm, but still there is a perpetual heat trapped inside himself, burning brightly.

He glances over to his right, where Gavin sits, immersed in the story. His voice has become a pleasant background noise as Nines admires his profile, takes in the cat-slit eyes and devilish horns, all his broken-glass teeth and faded scars. Nines’ eyes trail over his stubble, his soft hair, the crooked line of his nose.

His gaze migrates lower, to where Gavin’s thin, silver chain hangs loosely from his neck, the cut sapphire gleaming like stars.

Something wet rolls down his cheek as he whispers, “Thank you, Gavin.”

It’s an odd thing to say so suddenly. Gavin stops his reading, turns, his eyes widening considerably, in surprise or concern, the florist isn’t sure. Another tear escapes him, and this time the beast doesn’t hesitate to wipe it away with a brush of his thumb.

“You okay, Nines?” Gavin asks, taking Nines’ cold tea and setting it aside.

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly, and with a hint of a laugh. “I’m very much okay, darling.”

“Then...why the tears?”

Nines swallows, his throat tight.

“I love you, Gavin.”

Surprisingly, his voice doesn’t shake. The words come out strong and clear despite the vipers squeezing firmly around his neck. The prickling feeling returns at his temple, but Nines ignores it, clutches Gavin’s hand even tighter.

The beast appears to be at a loss for words, mouth ajar and eyes blown wide.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Nines tells him quietly. “I already know.”

Gavin’s throat bobs, his eyes wet. He lurches forward, and they embrace, bathed in the gentle moonlight streaming in through the open windows. The beast smells of coffee and smoke, so familiar to him now that his body relaxes with just a whiff of it alone.

The arms that hold him pull Nines even closer, their heartbeats thudding together, as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Richard Perkins is a well-known hunter in the large city of Detroit. He is almost always seen with his bow strapped to his back, arrows at the ready to hit their target. Perkins is a rather nasty fellow, often seen spending many of his nights at brothels and whorehouses. He has his eyes set on the Stern twins, particularly Nines, who he thinks is quite the beauty.


	8. Killing Him Softly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin takes Nines’ outstretched hand, and they dance.

He is awoken by a feather-light weight on his temple, blinks his eyes to rid them of that morning blur while he stirs, feeling a body next to his own, skin pressed flush together. Nines turns to see Gavin’s smiling face, his hair disheveled, peering down at him from where he’s propped up on his elbows.

Certainly, this is a sight the florist would never tire of.

“Mornin’,” Gavin greets, his voice sounding like he’d just woke up himself, deeper and a tad raspier than usual.

“Goodmorning,” Nines says back, still laying flat against the mattress. Gavin reaches down to fix his hair, swipes the stubborn curl to the side, hand lingering at the side of the florist’s head before it migrates to his neck, toying with the short hairs there.

Nines closes his eyes and immerses himself in the feeling, letting out a content hum, leans into the touch as the beast thumbs at his skin.

“As much as I’d love to stay here, we gotta get our suits fitted for the dance,” Gavin says, breaking the comfortable silence, but he doesn’t stop his thumb, continues to draw little shapes into Nines’ skin, just below his ear.

The florist keeps his eyes closed as he sleepily asks, “When is it again?”

“Five days from now.”

At this, Nines exhales from his nose, sits up, the blanket pooling around his waist.

“Then we’d best get started.”

They bathe together in Gavin’s lavatory, Nines leaning back against the rim of the pool as the beast sits behind him, messaging the soap into his hair, blunt nails digging pleasantly into his scalp.

He holds his breath as Gavin washes the bubbles out, hears him say, “Hope you don’t trip us both when it’s our time to shine.”

“Perhaps I’ll do it on purpose, then, just to spite you,” Nines replies, flipping his wet hair back and lifting his head. 

“You don’t need to do it on purpose for it to happen, babe,” Gavin retorts. “But don’t worry, I’ll catch you in my loving arms.” He moves so that his face is in Nines’ line of sight and winks, of course, with both eyes and a click of his tongue.

“As much as you’d like to think otherwise, you would end up taking us both down, considering our differences in...stature.”

“Fuck you, I’m average height!” the beasts yells, delivering a wet smack to Nines’ shoulder blade.

“Odd, I’d never noticed,” the florist deadpans, rising from the pool, water dripping from his fingertips. “In any case, darling, I would never let you fall.” Nines sends a proper wink over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth quirking up at Gavin’s flustered reaction.

“Asshole,” the beast mutters when they both exit the lavatory, skin flushed pink from the steam, towels wrapped around their waists.

Nines is fast to reply, as always, “You are, as they say, what you eat.” Gavin sputters from behind him, his face no doubt a violent shade of red. “Let’s be quick; we wouldn’t want to keep the others waiting.”

They eat breakfast with the rest of the servants, most chattering excitedly about the upcoming dance. Nines is seated at the table with Gavin and his closer friends, one of which is currently sending suggestive looks at their direction.

“I swear, if you don’t stop, Chen—”

“Or what? You’ll stab me?” Tina grins at him from across the table, eyes crinkling as much as they could with the stone.

“It’s not looking like a bad idea at the moment.”

“Start stabbing, hellion.”

Nines forces Gavin down as he jumps from his seat, rattling the table.

“Eat your breakfast, darling.”

“ _Darling?”_ Tina squawks, her grin widening. Next to her, Chris sighs, looking as if he’d want to be anywhere but here. They make a good trio, Nines has noticed, Chris being somewhat of the peacekeeper among them.

Gavin fumes in silence as he shovels food into his mouth, chewing angrily, brows drawn tight. Nines nudges his ankle with his foot, sees the way the beast’s shoulders relax at the touch, how the crease between his brows smooths out.

Gavin hooks a foot to his under the table, and a burst of electricity bubbles up from Nines’ skin, going as far as his ankle. He hides a smile behind his cup.

Later, Tina drags them away to get their suits fitted. They are brought to a large room filled with cloths and spinning wheels, some scrapped ideas loosely draped along wooden mannequins. 

She ushers them to pick a fabric, separately, of course.

“It’s for the _experience,_ ” Tina says when Gavin complains about not being able to see Nines’ suit choice. As they argue, Alice peeks her head in through the door, Kara not far behind. The girl takes Nines by the hand and guides him into a different room, away from all the ruckus.

Kara gestures to the many rolls of silk and felt. He runs his fingers over them as he walks, some smooth, and others rough like sandpaper. Nines stops once he spots a roll of dark blue wool, soft to the touch. It feels nice under his fingers, and he likes the color. Kara seems to get the hint, because she gets to work right away.

She takes his measurements while Alice jots them down on a little notebook, tiny pencil scribbling away. The tape stretches across his wide shoulders, down his back, his arms. Nines tries to stay as still as possible, not wanting to disrupt Kara’s fast working pace.

Once she steps back, tape worn like a scarf around her neck, Nines asks, “This will be done in five days?”

She smiles. “It may seem like a short amount of time, but we work fast.” Kara leaves it at that, then beckons him over to pick out the other parts of his suit. Nines decides on gold trimmings and details, white lace for the cuffs and cravat. Alice suggests he also wear gold for the sash, and who is he to decline such an offer?

Kara digs through one of the many closets and pulls out a dusty box. When she removes the lid, a pair of dress shoes sit in a bed of tissue. They’re a bit dull from unuse, but Kara assures they’ll shine like stars once she polishes them.

Nines tries them on, surprised at how well they fit him. They are comfortable, too, he finds, after he takes a few steps in them. As Kara packs the shoes away for later, the florist glances at Alice swinging her legs back and forth while she sits, humming to herself.

He walks over. “Will you be wearing a dress?”

Alice perks up immediately. “Yup! Mine is yellow and pink, and Kara puts this thing in my hair that makes me look like a fairy!” She gestures to her head, stiff fingers dancing wildly.

“A hairpin?” Nines tries, unsure of what the girl is trying to convey.

“I think so? It has a flower on it; Kara said she made it herself.”

“I’m sure you’ll look very pretty in your dress, Alice,” Nines tells her honestly, a hint of a smile on his lips.

She brightens at that, a bit pink in the face. “Thank you! I think you’re gonna look like a prince in your suit, just like Gavin.”

“You think so?”

“Yup!”

Nines takes a seat next to her. He hums thoughtfully, staring up at the high ceiling. “I believe Gavin is much more handsome than me, though.”

Alice giggles, her eyes shining. “Hank says you’re _fucking obsessed_ with him.”

“Alice!” Kara scolds from where she’s cleaning up. “What did I tell you about saying that?”

The girl caves her shoulders in, lips drawn into a pout. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

Nines snorts at her innocence.

“I’m not sure ‘obsession’ is the right word,” he says.

“Then, you love him?” Alice’s head is tilted up at him, brown eyes swimming with curiosity. His gaze lingers a moment too long on the white patches at her hairline, bleeding into the roots of her hair. Some is grazed along her jaw and ear, stony and unmoving. His chest pangs at the sight, and he wishes the curse would hurry up and break already.

Nines’ eyes soften, and he says, very gently, “Yes. I do.”

She’s smiling again, sits up a little taller. “Are you gonna marry him?”

The question startles him so much, he forgets to breathe, like it knocked the air right out of his chest.

“Alice!” Kara tuts again, sending the girl a stern look. She walks over to them, her visage apologetic as she turns her attention to Nines.

“I’m sorry about her,” Kara says with a sheepish smile. “She’s only curious.”

Nines snaps out of his shock, shakes his head. “It’s fine. That’s how children are.”

She gives him a soft smile, her eyes fond as she regards her daughter.

A door slams outside, followed by a loud string of curses.

Nines sighs, already missing the quiet. “I’m afraid I’ll need to take care of that.” He tilts his head in goodbye, returns Alice’s little wave as he walks out.

“It’s gonna look like shit, Gav!”

“No, it’s fuckin’ not! You _literally_ said I could pick!”

“It’s like you _want_ to embarrass yourself in front of Nines!”

“He does that all the time,” Nines chimes, walking in on Tina and Gavin arguing, the beast far from angry but displeased enough for it to show. 

“Fuck you.”

“Keep it in your pants, Gav.” Tina ducks, laughing as she does so, narrowly missing Gavin’s fist.

“What’s the problem?” Nines asks, used to the pair’s antics.

“Princess here chose the ugliest color for his suit.”

“There ain’t nothing wrong with it!”

“It’s _bright green,_ Gav. It hurts my eyes,” Tina complains, squinting for emphasis.

“You just said it was supposed to be a secret!” Gavin hisses.

“There’s no way I’m letting you wear it. Pick something else.”

“If it helps, I did pick a darker color scheme for mine,” Nines supplies.

“See!” Tina gasps. “Come on, Gavin. You don’t wanna look like a leprechaun.”

“He does have the height for it,” Nines says thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

“Okay, assholes!” Gavin growls, crossing his arms defensively. “I’ll pick something else. You happy now?”

“Yes,” Tina chirps, looking pleased.

“I’ll wait for you in the library,” Nines tells the beast just as he’s about to follow Tina to choose a different color fabric.

“Can you survive that long without me?” Gavin teases.

“You guys are gross, I’m right here,” Tina leers, her forehead wrinkling in false disgust, false because Nines can see a twinkle of _something_ flash in her eyes. “Sorry you gotta deal with Gav acting like a horny teenager.”

“It’s alright, I can handle children,” Nines smirks, turning his heel to leave. He doesn’t have to look back at the beast to know what expression he’s making.

 

* * *

 

The fort they made the day before is still standing when Nines walks into the library. He brushes the tarp to the side and crawls in, thankful for all the pillows that make up the soft flooring.

He settles into the same spot as before, leans back into the plush cushions, releasing a breath. Nines looks around the tent and spots a blanket folded to the right of him. He figures Gavin must’ve put it there at some point.

The florist unfolds the blanket and brings it up to his chin, shutting his eyes. Something akin to a headache is starting at his temple again, shooting sharp pangs of pain every so often.

Nines massages the area with his fingers, wrinkling his brow as the pain only seems to worsen. The area throbs violently, like a thousand needles pricking him all at once. He swears he sees a faint flash of red just barely out of the corner of his eye.

Blinking once, the light disappears.

Nines jumps at the sound of the tarp rustling open, the blanket falling to pool around his lap as he sits up in a flurry of motion so fast his head spins.

“I finally picked something decent to get Tina off my ass,” is what Gavin says when he crawls inside. The beast looks up, and Nines supposes he didn’t quite hide his dishevelment as well as he could, because Gavin is shuffling over to his side immediately, his face tight with concern.

“What happened?” he demands, hands hovering between their bodies, seemingly unsure of where to put them. Gavin decides settles for Nines’ shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze as if that will force an answer out of him.

Nines swallows dryly, shakes his head. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, darling.”

“That’s not a fucking answer!”

“I am not in the mood for another meaningless argument,” he says curtly, brushing off Gavin’s hold on him, which only angers the beast further.

“Fuck’s sake, Nines. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I told you there is nothing wrong—”

“Bullshit! I walk in here and find you looking like you’ve been stabbed. What’s. Wrong.”

Gavin gives him a hard look, and for the first time Nines feels small, like he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

The first thing he thinks of is to defend himself.

“It’s none of your business,” the florist’s words are sharp, but his eyes even sharper, like a freshly whetted blade. “This conversation is over.”

A tense silence hangs in the air, Gavin looking like he’s about to explode, his face red and jaw clenched so tightly Nines thinks he hears some teeth crack from the pressure. 

“Fine,” Gavin spits out, barreling himself out of the fort, almost knocking part of it over in his rush to leave. Nines places a hand on one of the cushioned walls to steady it before it caves in.

He sighs, closing his eyes to recollect himself. Figuring it best to give Gavin some time to cool off, Nines sinks back into the pillows, brings the blanket to his nose this time.

It bears Gavin’s coffee-ash scent, and he finds himself falling asleep to the smell of it.

Nines dreams of Amanda, her eyes glowing a ferocious pink, her face drawn tight and angry. 

 _“You will come back to me, Richard,”_ she says, her voice distorted as it echoes in the dark space around them. _“You have already served your purpose.”_

Her hand inches towards his face, trying to grab him. Nines finds that he can’t move, his limbs feeling heavy and distant. Fear spikes in his gut and up his throat as Amanda’s hand draws closer, her fingers enclosing around his face, perfect nails digging softly into his skin.

He sees a flash of red at his temple, mouth parting in a silent scream.

_“Come back to me.”_

Nines comes to someone shaking him, and it’s not until he’s opened his bleary eyes when he realizes Gavin is calling his name.

“Nines? Shit, Nines!”

The florist’s throat feels dry, like he’s swallowed sand. Sweat dribbles down his temple and into his hair. His eyes are wet, he notices.

“You okay, babe?” Gavin’s tone is soft, kind as he helps Nines sit up. He doesn’t hesitate to take the florist’s hands in his own, the grip grounding him. 

Nines tries to calm the violent thudding of his heart, takes in a breath so deep it hurts his ribs. The beast wipes some sweat from his forehead, treads his rough fingers into Nines’ hair, whispers reassuringly until he calms down.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Gavin asks him once he’s settled down. He continues to caress the florist’s hair, and Nines can’t help but lean into the touch, burying his nose into Gavin’s wrist.

“No,” Nines says shakily, squeezing his eyes shut. He can still see Amanda’s furious face burning brightly behind his eyelids no matter how hard he tries to push the image away.

“Okay. Come here, baby.” The hand in his hair pulls him forward until he’s pressing his face into the crook of Gavin’s neck. Nines’ arms come up to wrap around the beast, balls his shirt in his fists as if he’d lose Gavin forever if he were to let go.

Nines shivers as he thinks of Amanda’s face, her voice, the feel of her nails cutting into his skin. She haunts him, even when he’s so far away from her, in a place she’d never return to.

Gavin runs his hand down the curve of the florist’s spine, mumbling comforting words into his hair. Nines feels him reach down to swipe at the tears rolling down his cheeks, the pad of his thumb rough, but familiar.

“You want something to eat?” Gavin asks, after a moment.

“Yes,” Nines murmurs, his face sticky. They make no move to untangle from each other. “And tea.”

The beast hums, squeezing Nines’ hip.

“I gotta get up, babe,” he says, although it’s obvious he doesn’t want to.

Nines reluctantly dislodges himself from Gavin, sniffling pitifully, like a child.

“I’ll be quick,” Gavin tells him, ducking underneath the tarp.

With him gone, the fort feels too cold.

Nines wraps the blanket around his shoulders, not bothering to fix his hair, which must look like a mess. He feels like a mess, so sweaty and tired. His eyes are probably red-rimmed from crying, and he huffs out a dry laugh at the thought.

The florist is grateful to have someone like Gavin, who’d take care of him even after a small fight.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it the following day, or the day after that. They continue on with their lives as if it never happened, and Nines prefers for it to stay like that. He doesn’t want to trouble Gavin with a silly nightmare, not when they have such a big event coming up.

They practice dancing in the library a few more times, Nines now well-adjusted to the routine. He doesn’t trip or stumble anymore, much to Gavin’s annoyance.

“I thought you wanted to make Ms. Chen’s jaw drop,” Nines had teased after one particular session.

“Don’t use my own words against me, asshole. And you can just call her ‘Tina,’ you know. Quit bein’ such a hardass,” was what Gavin had replied with. Nines took the second suggestion.

Their suits are ready the night before the dance. The florist would be lying if he said he wasn’t bewildered at the sight of his, looking professionally tailored and dashing even on a mannequin.

Kara helps him try it on, adjusts and pulls at the sleeves or collar when necessary. The suit fits him perfectly, not tight or wrinkled at all.

Alice squeals when he comes from behind the screen divider, jumping excitedly.

“You look so handsome, Nines!” she says, bouncing up to him, her eyes twinkling.

“Thank you,” the florist smiles, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. “I assume you’ll look like a little princess in your dress tomorrow.”

As Alice giggles and runs around the room, Nines takes the time to thank Kara for the suit.

“I didn’t actually do much; it was mostly Luther and Ralph doing all the work,” she tells him with her usual smile. “They’re surprisingly good at it, much better than me, at least.”

Nines leaves himself a mental note to thank the two of them later.

He meets Gavin out in the hallway, the beast looking all too pleased with himself.

“What.”

“You look so happy to see me, babe.”

They fall into step with one another as they retreat to their room.

“Not when you’re pulling a face like that. What did you do?” Nines asks flatly.

“Nothin’. Just thinking about how you’re gonna shit yourself when you see me in my suit tomorrow,” Gavin says, a cocky grin on his lips.

“I can only imagine that being a bad thing.”

“No, smartass. You’re gonna shit yourself ‘cause of how good I’m gonna look.”

Nines wrinkles his nose. “That seems like an overstatement.”

“God—nevermind. How’d yours look?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Nines smirks, easily dodging the incoming elbow to his ribs. They get ready for bed once they reach their bedroom, Nines changing into nightclothes and slipping beneath their comforter.

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” the florist asks when Gavin presses against his side.

“Hell yeah,” Gavin replies, lips stretching into a lazy smile. “Haven’t had a dance in a long time.”

“How long ago?”

The beast’s features harden a bit, and Nines wonders if he pushed too far. He’s about to brush the question off when Gavin says, “Back when Eli—uh, when my brother was still here.”

Nines takes a moment to let the words sink in. Gavin’s brother was the one who’d cursed the castle in the first place, all those years ago. Rage bubbles in his gut at the thought of a man he’s never met.

If they ever do meet, the florist will make good use of his fist.

“I see,” Nines hums, then adds, before he can stop himself, “Do you miss him?”

He hears Gavin breathe in sharply through his nose, and he immediately regrets his words.

“I apologize if I overstepped—”

“Sometimes.”

It’s said so quietly, the beast’s voice just barely above a whisper. The conversation ends there, a tad bit tense. Nines rolls over to face Gavin, chest clenching at the sight of him staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Darling, I’m sorry,” he says quietly, taking one of Gavin’s hands.

Green meets blue. “It’s fine. Guess I’m still not over him and his bullshit.” A dry laugh leaves his lips, has the florist pressing his own into a thin line.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Gavin. He hurt you and it’s more than alright to feel how you feel.” Nines runs his thumb over the back of the beast’s hand, caressing every knuckle. He hopes it’s at least somewhat comforting.

Gavin doesn’t say anything after that, just turns to lay on his side, pressing their joined hands to his chest. Nines curls his body around the beast, buries nose into brown hair.

“Thank you, Nines.”

 

* * *

 

The morning of the dance is a loud one.

Nines can hear the chatter and clinking of metal on porcelain before he even enters the dining room. Everyone seems to be in an energetic mood, laughing like today would be their last.

Next to him, he sees Gavin’s poor attempt to hide his growing smile, has to tell himself not to say anything to damper the mood.

They somehow manage to make their way through the bustling room and to their usual table by the windows, where Tina and Chris always arrive before them.

“There’re today’s shining stars,” Tina beams, nudging Chris with her elbow to get his attention.

“You’re damn annoying, you know that?” Gavin huffs as he snatches a muffin from the tray centered at the table.

“You too,” she bites back, sticks her tongue out a bit.

“It’s a wonder how they haven’t killed each other yet,” Chris tells Nines, cutting into his eggs as the pair bicker back and forth.

Nines chooses his own muffin from the tray, takes a bite from it. Cinnamon. “An unsolved phenomenon,” he deadpans. “Though I think Ms. Chen— _Tina_ would beat him in a fight.”

Chris laughs, nodding in agreement. “Damn right.”

“I can hear you, assholes!”

The rest of breakfast goes by in a blur, no, the rest of the day, actually. Nines gets the chance after breakfast to thank Luther and Ralph for the suit. He gets a rather peculiar reaction from the scarred fellow, his face lighting up like a child’s at the praise. Luther’s is far more subdued, a simple smile and nod. 

Nines spends his time mostly helping out in cleaning the ballroom, sweeping the vast, polished floor and dusting the lights. It is no easy feat. The room, which at one time was a very popular place for the rich to gather, hadn’t been used in years and had collected quite a bit of dust.

Nines wipes the light sweat collecting at his brow with the back of his hand, stills the broom he’s holding as he looks around the grand expanse of the ballroom. Already it is looking better than before, the intricate pillars shining as they reflect the orange light pouring in through the window.

The many chandeliers have yet to be lit, though Nines can already picture how they’d look when the dance starts, like staring at the night sky.

Hank limps over to him, claps a hand down on his shoulder. “We’ll finish up here. You go get ready, son.”

Nines blinks, lips part to object.

“Don’t even try it. It’s a special day for you, after all.”

He doesn’t quite get what the old man means, but he nods and leaves the room, Kara and Alice already waiting for him outside.

“Are you excited, Nines?” Alice asks him, rocking back and forth on her toes.

“Very much so,” he replies as they start walking. “I would like to see you in your dress.”

“I think you wanna see Gavin in his suit even more, though!”

The florist can’t help the way his lips quirk up.

“You are not wrong.”

He sees Kara smile widely out of the corner of his eye and takes it as a victory. She tells him to shower first before getting dressed, which he does quickly. When he walks out into his room with his hair still damp, he finds his suit waiting for him by the dresser.

Nines dries his hair to the best of his ability before slipping the undershirt on, tucks it into his trousers. He slides his arms into the suit jacket and tugs at the lapels of it to fix it into place. He does the same to the lace cuffs, then smooths down the front of his suit before slipping on his polished shoes.

Kara and Alice are dressed as well, he finds, when they knock at his door. The girl’s dress is indeed pink and yellow, frilly at the ends. Her hair is pulled back into a half-do, a golden flowered pin wedged into where the knot is thickest.

Kara’s dress is more simple, a creamy white that hugs her figure nicely. Her short hair is parted to the side, held by a hairpin that matches her daughter’s.

The woman helps Nines style his hair, makes it curlier than usual. She combs it into place and dusts his throat in light cologne, brushes off his broad shoulders as a mother would, smiling kindly.

“You look very pretty, Alice,” Nines says, hands held politely in front of him.

“Thank you! Look at my hairpin!” The girl shows it off, babbling about nonsense, as children do. She does a little twirl that makes her dress flutter, giggles at the small praises the adults give her.

“You look lovely as well, Kara.”

“I don’t hold a candle to you,” she laughs, waving a dismissive hand. “I think they’re about done. Ready to go?”

Nines nods, his chest stuttering, the tips of his fingers tingly from excitement or nervousness, he isn’t sure. He wants to see Gavin cleaned up and dressed nicely, wants very badly to take his hand and invite him to dance.

The poets describe nervousness as butterflies in one’s stomach. Nines would say it feels more like vipers churning in his gut, squeamish and threatening to sink their teeth in.

He lets out a breath as they draw closer to the ballroom, can already hear the faint music from where he stands on the grand staircase. Kara and Alice go ahead of him, the girl waving as they enter first.

Nines hears heavy footsteps coming from his right, and from that alone, he knows it’s him. Gavin walks into view, his suit a deep emerald green, hints of gold at the seams. His hair is styled and swept neatly to the left. The florist spots a glimmer of light by Gavin’s ear, recognizes it as an earring, hanging loosely above his shoulder.

The sight knocks the air from his lungs. 

As the beast approaches him, Nines offers his arm, which Gavin takes with a little grin.

“You nervous?” he asks as they descend down the stairs.

“I must admit that I am,” Nines replies. “Though I have little to worry about if you’re by my side.”

Gavin blushes a pretty shade of red at that, mutters something about him being sappy.

They walk into the ballroom, everyone standing at the side to greet them. They have the first dance, after all.

The chandeliers bear candles now, giving off a soft yellow light and coloring the ballroom a gentle gold. Music seems to come from nowhere, filling the entire room. Luther stands by the grand piano Alice is seated at, her tiny fingers flying over the keys with grace despite the stony patches. The man starts to sing.

_Tale as old as time_

_True as it can be_

Nines and Gavin face each other, bowing slightly. The florist offers him his outstretched hands, hopes he doesn’t notice the way they’re shaking. Gavin takes them, quells the shakiness with his own firm grip.

_Barely even friends_

_Then somebody bends_

_Unexpectedly_

The beast starts first, leads Nines into their routine. They sway and twirl across the floor in graceful moves, the tails of their coats flying as they do so. Nines doesn’t look away from Gavin’s eyes, feeling a bit breathless at how they shine even in such low lighting.

_Just a little change_

_Small, to say the least_

_Both a little scared_

_Neither one prepared_

_Beauty and the beast_

They waltz to the center of the room as the music grows louder. Nines spins Gavin by the arm, plants a hand to the beast’s waist.

“ _I love you_ ,” the florist mouths, only for him to see.

Gavin mouths it back, his lips stretched into a smile so wide it makes it eyes crinkle. Nines’ chest tightens, wishes the moment would last forever.

_Ever just the same_

_Ever a surprise_

_Ever as before_

_Ever just as sure_

_As the sun will rise_

They part from each other for a moment before Gavin is twirling himself back into Nines’ arms, brings their hands up as he braces the other onto the florist’s shoulder.

The lights magically start to dim, and suddenly they’re thrusted underneath the night sky, a thousand shimmering stars above their heads.

_Tale as old as time_

_Tune as old as song_

_Bittersweet and strange_

_Finding you can change_

_Learning you were wrong_

Nines cups the back of Gavin’s head as he dips the beast, wishing he could just lean forward to plant a quick kiss on his lips. He knows better to do that, though, and spins Gavin into the air as he holds the beast’s waist, lifting him from the ground.

The chandeliers chime and twinkle as their bodies press together tightly, Nines carrying both their weight as he gently whirls them around, once, twice, before he sets Gavin back down.

Their hands lace together again as they come to the end of their routine, Nines’s gaze never leaving Gavin’s, not even once. 

_Certain as the sun_

_Rising in the east_

_Tale as old as time_

They dance around each other like fish in water, Gavin grazing his fingers teasingly along Nines’ arms whenever they come close. Nines pulls the beast back to him, presses their chests together as they sway side to side.

They part, though reluctantly, the florist’s fingers slipping free from Gavin’s while they stand to face one another, their dance complete.

_Song as old as rhyme_

_Beauty and the beast_

_Tale as old as time_

Nines bows first, then Gavin does the same. Their eyes have yet to part.

_Song as old as rhyme_

_Beauty_

_and_

_the beast_

Luther’s singing trails off lightly at the end, and despite the loud applause they receive, the only thing Nines can hear is Gavin’s soft murmur of, “I love you so much.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of them dance at the same time, in their own little groups. Alice dances on the tops of Luther’s shoes, the giant doing most of their dancing as Alice giggles excitedly.

Tina steals Nines away from Gavin, much to the beast’s dismay. She places her hands on the florist’s shoulders as they move randomly, Nines following Tina’s steps.

“Dunno if anyone’s told you this yet, but thank you,” she says, looking up at him.

“For what?”

Tina jerks her head in reference to Gavin, who’s presumably in the middle of receiving some...encouraging words from Hank, judging by the beast’s less-than-pleased expression and the old man’s smirk.

“Making him happy. Even if the curse doesn’t break in the end, at least he’ll still have you.” There’s a somber look on her face, her mouth a sad smile.

Nines stills them, his chest panging.

“I...am sorry I cannot help you all,” he admits regretfully. He, too, has been wondering why the curse has yet to break.

Perhaps his feelings aren’t enough.

“Don’t sweat it,” Tina says dismissively, waving her hand. “I’m just glad he won’t be alone when...you know. He isn’t always easy to deal with, but he’s worth it.”

At this, Nines lets a rare smile slip.

“I know.”

When the last candle is blown out, everyone retreats to their rooms after bidding quiet _good nights._ Gavin is in the bathroom cleaning himself up, which leaves Nines in their bed, fingers digging into his temple.

The pain there is the worst it’s ever been. It has Nines curling in on himself, tightly squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to even out his breathing.

Fear bubbles deep in his gut, threatening to spill over. He has an inkling that something bad is to come, and he looks around the room to see if anything is off.

All he hears is the faucet running from the bathroom, squeaking shut as Gavin emerges in his nightclothes.

“Alright,” he says tersely, and Nines doesn’t have the energy to wave his concern away. “Spill. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The florist swallows around the forming lump in his throat, licks his dry lips.

“I have been having these...headaches lately. I’m not sure what’s causing them,” he admits, looking away.

A hand presses itself to his forehead.

“You don’t feel hot,” Gavin mutters, removing his hand. Nines has to ignore the urge to follow it.

“I am certain I have no illness.”

The beast slides himself underneath the covers, their legs brushing against each other. Gavin chews on his lip as he thinks, Nines massaging his temple next to him. It does little to alleviate the pain.

“Maybe—” Gavin starts, but there’s a high-pitched horse’s whinny from outside, followed by men yelling.

They jump from the bed, Nines wobbling slightly as the pain renders him dizzy and starts to worsen, pulsing violently underneath his skin.

Nines looks outside, spots men on horses, their torches burning brightly in the dark of winter. He squints to try and get a better view of their faces. The man in front moves his head slightly, and Nines’ stomach swoops as recognition dawns on him.

Perkins.

“Shit,” he curses lowly.

“What? You know them?”

“Unfortunately.”

Nines inhales sharply at a particular throb that has him seeing black dots in the edges of his vision.

“We shouldn’t keep our guests waiting, then,” Gavin says lowly.

Tina, Hank, and Chris are already downstairs when they arrive, talking quietly amongst themselves. Nines can hear Perkins’ rough voice yelling through the door, it has him wrinkling his nose.

“The guy in front said he wants you, Nines,” Tina says, her usual carefree face now serious. Chris opens the curtains a smidge to study the men outside, a frown on his face.

“Prick won’t stop yelling,” Hank mutters. “Maybe they’ll leave if we don’t answer.”

“No, they’ll force their way inside,” Chris counters, stepping back from the window. “Let’s try to be civil.” He eyes both Tina and Gavin as he says this, earning glares from the both of them.

“Open the doors,” Gavin orders, and Tina does just that. The winter wind is relentless as it enters the room, whipping Nines’ face with its untamed chill.

Gavin and Hank step out first, guards raised in case a brawl breaks out.

“What business do you have here?” Hank asks politely, though Nines can hear the irritation in his voice.

Perkins demounts his horse. The snow crunches beneath his heavy boots as he stands at the base of the stairs, not making any move to ascend them. 

“We came to pick up some baggage,” the hunter says in his nasty voice, jerking his head in Nines’ direction.

Nines scowls down at Perkins, stepping forward until he’s halfway out the door.

“What makes you think I’ll come so willingly?” the florist sneers, drawing his brows tight, his face stony.

“You don’t have a choice, Doll. Amanda’s orders.”

And like striking a match, Nines’ entire body seizes up. He feels his control slipping as the pain at his temple bubbles over, like someone had pierced him with a fine-toothed blade.

Nines’ legs move on their own, starting to descend down the stairs despite his screaming internally. He finds that he can’t talk, either, or move any part of him, as if he was stuck in that nightmare all over again.

Amanda’s chants of _Come back to me_ ring like a church bell in his head. They drown out Gavin’s confused stuttering and and yells of _What the hell are you doing?!_

He doesn’t know what expression the beast is making, and he doesn’t want to find out.

Nines tries to break free from the mysterious hold on him, but Amanda’s grip is vice-like, unrelenting and much too strong. Goosebumps raise from his skin, but he isn’t sure if it’s from the cold or his fear.

 _I don’t want to leave him_.

He’s getting closer to Perkins with every step.

_Stop._

The hunter has his hand outstretched to him as he reaches the last few steps, a crooked smile on his unsightly face, dull gaze feasting on Nines as if the florist were his next meal.

“Come on home, Doll.”

Red flares violently out of the corner of his eye, blinking widely and matching the frantic beat of his heart.

A familiar hand clamps down on his shoulder, roughly spinning him around. He’s met with Gavin’s face twisted with distress that makes Nines’ throat constrict.

“What are you doing, Nines?” the beast asks, meeting his blank stare. His voice shakes, his eyes watery.

 _I wish I knew,_ he wants to say. He can’t.

Nines’ body shoves Gavin off of him, and the beast doesn’t fight it. He sees a sliver of betrayal on the beast’s expression before he turns around again, descending the last few steps and taking Perkins’ outstretched hand.

It feels wrong on his skin. The very feel of it alone makes him itch and want to tear his hand away. Nines’ vision swims with his own tears, threatening to spill over.

One does, and Perkins swipes it away with a thumb.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Doll,” he purrs, leading Nines to his horse. “Soon this nightmare of yours will be over, and you won’t have to worry about being a slave to a beast.” 

Perkins flicks his gaze up, presumably at Gavin.

“Because his head will be mine in due time.” He smiles, then, a cursed little thing, all yellow teeth and gums.

Nines has never wanted to kick a person’s teeth in as much as he wants to now.

The florist’s face is blank, emotionless, even with the war raging inside his head. He mounts Perkins’ horse, empty eyes trained to the ground. Nines wants to scream and run back to the safety of Gavin’s castle. His heartbeat sounds like thunder in his ears.

He doesn’t know what Amanda will do to him once he returns to Detroit.

Nines doesn’t want to think of the possibilities.

Perkins and his men laugh, a ravenous cackle that fills the wintery air, too harsh for the snowflakes coming down in soft flurries.

“I’ll come back, beast, and slay you and the rest of your little freak show!” Perkins swears, mounting his horse and whipping the reins down hard, carrying Nines away, far away from this place of wrath and tears.

He can’t even get one last look at the castle before they take him like soldiers would spoils of war.

Nines’ last thought before his control slips completely is,

_Gavin_

And the world around him goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Ralph is a rather interesting fellow. He’d crossed paths with Kara when it was only her and Alice trying to make a living. It may not be obvious on the outside, but he isn’t at all a bad person. Alice loves him like she would any other family member; Ralph is the only one willing to play pretend with her without getting tired of it, after all. He’s the castle’s gardener, possessing a green thumb that even rivals Amanda’s.


	9. The Turning Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nines settles back into Detroit.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat, the thin fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin. The ceiling he’s staring at is plain and cracked, nothing like the one in his bedroom of the castle. No, this ceiling lacks elegance and a ridiculous golden trim. The bed, too, is unfamiliar and cold. The mattress is too thin. There is no other body laying next to his. 

Nines drags a hand down his face, taking in a shaky breath. The bed creaks from beneath him as he swings his legs over the edge. His chest feels numb and heavy while he stares at the floor through tired eyes, glossed over and unfocused.

Nines doesn’t register the door squeaking open and Connor walking in with a tray of food. His eyes widen a fraction, as if not expecting him to be awake. 

“Goodmorning,” his brother greets quietly, setting the tray down on the bedside table. “Please eat, Rich.”

Nines shakes his head, gaze still trained to the floor. His spine curls in on itself. He isn’t hungry; hasn’t been for days now.

“Rich,” Connor begs, walking toward him hesitantly, his hands suspended in the air like he’s afraid a single touch would break Nines. His brows are wrinkled, mouth pulled into a concerned frown. 

“You haven’t eaten in hours,” Connor adds lowly, looks to be debating whether or not to take a seat next to Nines on the bed. He stands a few paces away.

“I’m not hungry,” Nines says dully, rising to shuffle to the lavatory. He passss Connor as he goes, catches him looking all sorts of worried before he slips out the door. 

Nines studies the figure standing before him in the lavatory mirror. The man is a pathetic, hollow thing, his dark hair unkept and greasy. There are bruises under his eyes from the never ending nights of restless sleep. His ribs poke out from beneath his skin—pale skin, white as bone—like hills.

Some would say the man was quite the handsome fellow a season or two ago; he was told by envious men that he made girls’ knees go weak at the sight of him alone. Mothers would often come into the shop and, in a rather indiscreet manner, brag about how lovely their daughters were and how nicely he would pair with one of them.

Nines was never interested in those girls, no matter how frilly their dresses or soft their hair. In his opinion, they all tried too hard to impress him, not an ounce of authenticity beneath their masks of powder and rose-painted lips. Their voices were too high and chattery, fragile little fingers gripping his arm and leaving unwanted touches as acts of _flirting_.

Nines had unregrettably dismissed every one of them.

He doubts now any of them would take him anyway, given his current appearance. His nightshirt is crinkled, the skin under his eyes a mottled purple. Besides, no woman would want a husband who yearns for another man, especially if that man was an adroit, little beast with a colorful mouth.

However, the mirror fails to display the most devastating part of the man. There is a trench where his heart is supposed to lay, deeper than any of the crevices found in the ocean.

It has been three weeks since Nines had been taken away, and he has yet to fill the gap. He turns away from the mirror to turn on the bath’s faucet, letting the water run. Steam fogs up the glass, makes his reflection blurry, his face indistinguishable. 

 _Good_ , he thinks. He is sick and tired of seeing himself so pathetic.

Nines strips and sinks to the bottom of the tub even though the water is scalding hot against his skin. His face lowers inch by inch until his head is beneath the surface.

Under the depths, he blearily gazes up at the gleaming light above the tub. The hot water hurts his eyes, and surely they will turn red after his bath, but Nines doesn’t find the strength in himself to care. He watches the light sway in accordance to the water.

His vision blurs even further. If he cries, he can’t see the tears.

Nines allows the water to swallow him whole, doesn’t come up for air despite the terrible burning in his chest, in his lungs. He figures there is no greater pain than being ripped away from Gavin.

_Gavin._

He curls his hands into fists, screws his eyes shut.

When the lack of air becomes too much, Nines grips the edges of the tub and wrenches himself out. He gasps in a lungful of air so large it hurts his ribs, sends him into a coughing fit. Nines lets his head hit the tile wall with a heavy _thud_ once he’s regained his composure, panting wildly through his nose.

His hair lays damp across his forehead, over his eyes. Water droplets eventually cool against his warm skin, but he makes no move to wipe them away. 

Nines wants to scream, wants to rip something apart until his hands are bloody and torn. Although, at the same time he has a strong urge to curl up and hide away in a place where no one could ever find him, where no one would dare to look.

(Nines had found that place, once. In the depths of a cursed winter, he had found a home.)

His eyes water, burning with a terrible longing. Some tears spill over. He lets them run down his face. Nines sits in the bath until the water turns cold and his fingers wrinkle, thinking, thinking about what he could have done differently.

When the silence becomes too much, Nines gets up to drain the tub, haphazardly wrapping a towel around his waist, not bothering to dry his hair. He passes by the mirror without a glance. Nines can’t bear to see another reminder of who he’s become.

Connor is gone when he walks back into the room. The tray of food is still on the bedside table, waiting for him. Nines breezes right by that as well, moves to his drawers to pull out a new shirt. A new pair of pants. Undergarments. He dresses slowly. Tugs the shirt on. Then the pants. Slips on the socks.

Nines combs his hair rather crudely, leaves it loose and unstyled, a mess of brown on his head. He sets the comb down, then braces himself against the vanity table, knuckles turning white as he grips the edges of it. A sob, broken and strangled, escapes him, and there is nothing Nines can do to rid himself of the grievous pain in his chest.

He has felt pain before, but nothing quite like this. No, this hurts more than a scraped knee or bruised cheek. Even the lonesome nights Nines had laid alone in his bed, wondering if his life would ever be more than it was, cannot compare. 

And he had thought that to be true until he met Gavin. 

For the longest time, Nines had told himself that this would be it. He would work in his mother’s flower shop until his bones wore out and his skin wrinkled. The same cycle everyday, the dreadful cycle of waking up, working, and going to bed wondering if he’d ever have to share the covers with someone else, or if he’d ever even get the chance to.

Those nights were always the coldest.

But then—then push came to shove and all of a sudden Nines was sharing a bed with a beast, reading to him at night, holding him in his arms and pressing his lips to Gavin’s forehead.

It was only luck that the two of them even met. 

...but perhaps it was his life’s best part, no matter how short-lived it was. Truly, he had never felt so _alive_ , like there was more to his existence than being a slave to his own mother. Every part of him seemed to agree that Gavin— _Gavin_ , who has a temper like a blazing forest fire and eyes like jewels—was the one person he’d been waiting for his entire life, and the one person who made him feel like he was greater than he really was.

(And perhaps Nines has always been great; Gavin was just the person to make him notice it.)

When Nines had awoken in his own bed for the first time in months, he didn’t have a clue of where he was.

Until he did.

And like a flood, the memories bombarded him. Ruthless and unforgiving and all at once.

He remembers how he felt when the first few tears fell, silently, slowly. Nines remembers the exact moment his crying had turned into full out sobs, his lips trembling as he recalled how easily he was ripped away from Gavin. Nines faintly remembers Connor bursting in through the door, his brother’s hands gripping his shoulders as he bawled.

Everything after that became but a blur, and three weeks had gone by without much change at all.

Now, Nines’ shoulders shake no matter how hard he wills them not to. Fresh tears build up behind his eyes. This time, he doesn’t let them fall. He has work, after all. The florist crudely wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

He trudges down the stairs, heads out into the world that’s too bright and colorful for how it really is.

Nines walks the short path to the shop with an empty stomach. He must look like a ghost with the way his gaze is unfocused and distant, limbs swaying carelessly by his sides. The season of spring is here, the trees abloom with new leaves and fresh flowers. A new start; a clean slate.

Connor had told him that some time after he came back. It ended with a heated argument, lots of yelling in a house too big. A fist to Connor’s jaw. Nines’ unruly rage, his clenched teeth, his wild eyes.

The rest of the night was quiet after that.

Connor still approaches him like a hunter would a deer. Careful, as to not upset or startle him, his hands raised in surrenderance, face too soft, too cautious. Nines thought he’d be relieved to see his brother again.

Now, Connor is but a thorn at his side, constantly prodding without knowing.

The bell chimes from above the door when he pushes it open. Nines hears Connor’s call of _One moment!_ from the counter. He snatches an apron from one of the hooks and throws it on, doesn’t turn around when he hears Connor’s footsteps stop behind him.

“You didn’t have to come in today,” Connor says quietly, setting a pot of chrysanthemums down.

“I must work regardless of my own personal issues. The shop won’t run itself,” Nines replies, plucking an order from the bin, scans it over.

“I can do it on my own for a few more days.”

“Three weeks is long enough. There’s no need.”

Their conversation ends there, tense and awkward. Nines jumps right into his work, sketches out a potential bouquet for a customer. He presses down on the paper so hard the tip of the pencil breaks. A rough sigh escapes him as he squeezes the pencil. It nearly snaps from the pressure.

Nines can feel Connor’s eyes on him, but decides to ignore it for now. Instead he sharpens the pencil and gets back to work. It doesn’t break this time.

He is quiet for much of his shift, only ever talking to customers when he absolutely has to. They seem hesitant to approach him now, opting to get assistance from Connor instead.

A group of girls, surely no older than eighteen, whisper amongst themselves near a display by the window.

“I heard he was taken by a beast.”

“Apparently he was sold off as a peace offering.”

“Do you think he’s been cursed? He looks miserable.”

Nines’ head snaps up at their rather loud mumbling. His glare is cold enough to quell the hottest of fires, and the girls seize up immediately, faces turning red as they scurry out of the shop.

“He might send the beast here to eat us!” one of them squeals as they flee, halfway out the door.

A vein pops out of Nines’ flesh, pulsing at his forehead. How dare they. How _dare_ they assume Gavin to be a monster—nothing more than a _beast_. They know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

For how could they ever understand how gentle a beast could be when it’s just the two of them, alone, with only the stars and dusty books to serve them any company? They have never seen the way Gavin’s face softens whenever he looks at Nines. They have never felt his tender touches, his kisses, the burning heat they leave behind. No one here will know of the unexpected insecurity hidden beneath the facade of a crude nature and an even cruder mouth.

They really have no idea of the comfort a beast could bring by sneaking him a cup of his favorite tea on cold nights. All the little things will be left unnoticed to anyone who doesn’t know any better, like Gavin passing the unbearably sweet morsels onto Nines’ plate. Or him doing tedious things that remind the florist of his childhood, or watching the setting sun from the top of the castle, huddled close together to share heat. Those girls could never understand what the two of them had. 

No one will know Nines like Gavin knows him.

He’s about to run after them, those idiotic girls, but Connor grabs him by the crook of his elbow and yanks him back.

“Don’t,” he warns, and although Nines has an inch or two on him, he finds himself reluctantly obeying. It would make no sense to go after them anyway, not when he hasn’t even told Connor anything about the castle and the cursed people who live there.

His brother knows nothing about Gavin, and Nines isn’t sure if he ever wants him to.

For now, he shakes off Connor’s hold on him, stomps into the storage room to pretend that he’s busy. Nines kills a few minutes in there, mainly staring up at the ceiling as he sits on the cold ground, his head tilted back against the wall.

Connor doesn’t come in to check on him, and for that he’s grateful.

Nines’ stomach growls at some point, and he curses at himself for not having breakfast. It’s been a while since he’s last eaten; exactly how long ago, he doesn’t know. But his stomach churns painfully, begging for food.

He can’t work like this.

Nines rips his apron off, throws it on the counter as he passes by Connor and a couple picking up their flower arrangement.

“I’m getting lunch,” is his quick explanation, and he’s out the door.

Nines digs his nails into the meat of his hands as he walks down the street to Manfred’s Bakery. He nearly tramples a poor girl on his way, utters out a quick apology before scurrying on, his pace a little quicker.

He all but slams the door open, nearly sending the hanging bell flying. Simon jumps from behind the counter, catches a tray of pastries just in time.

“Nines!” the baker gasps, his eyes wide.

“Simon,” Nines nods, sauntering up to the counter. Now he wishes he picked a place where he was less known.

“I—we thought—I mean, everyone heard you came back a few weeks ago, but—”

“What he’s trying to say is ‘welcome back,’” a new voice chimes in. Markus walks in from the kitchen, balancing two trays on his arms. He loads them up on the rack, then leans against the counter across from Nines.

“Perkins didn’t say much, but I didn’t really expect that bastard to anyway. How are you feeling?” Markus’ two-toned stare makes Nines’ skin itch, like he can see everything the florist is trying to hide.

“Fine,” he lies. It doesn’t seem to be appreciated, because both bakers share a frown.

“You can tell us,” Simon says. “We’re friends, after all.”

“But we won’t pry if you really insist,” Markus adds.

Nines’ lips curl downward.

“I haven’t even told my brother,” the florist admits, looking away. Guilt tugs at Nines’ heart. He’s been so terrible towards Connor ever since he came back, even though his brother has only been trying to help.

A sigh. “Oh, Nines.” Markus purses his lips then, seemingly thinking of what to say. “Did—did the beast do something to you?”

“No,” Nines says, sharply. “He would never.”

“He?”

“Maybe we should sit down,” Simon suggests, moving from behind the counter to close the bakery. He flips the sign. “Business is slow today, anyways.”

They take a seat by a sunny spot near the window, Simon and Markus on one side of the round table, opposite of Nines. The florist presses his palms into the material of his pants, squeezing his knees.

“So,” Markus starts, propping his elbows up. “About this beast…”

He is reluctant at first, but eventually Nines gingerly tells them everything, from how he and Gavin first met to their very last heart wrenching exchange before Perkins had carried him away like a war prize. He figures it best to cut out the more intimate parts. They didn’t need to know.

Simon’s face is ever gentle during Nines’ explanation, his forehead creasing with worry as the florist reaches the end. Markus holds his fists to his lips, deep in thought. His expression has been painfully neutral.

It’s quiet as the bakers let the information sink in. Nines can’t help but tap his foot against the floor, a nervous tick. His palms are damp with sweat.

Finally, Markus speaks.

“You loved him.”

Nines’ throat constricts with the force of a thousand vipers.

“Yes,” he croaks. _I still do._ “But I’m not sure if he still feels the same after the stunt Amanda pulled.”

Nines was informed hours after he was taken back to Detroit that Amanda had strangely disappeared on the same night Perkins and his scoundrels came to get him.

 _Witch,_ Nines thinks. He has no doubt now that Amanda has some sort of magic at her fingertips. The chilling nightmare, the incongruous mind control. Nines shivers at the thought of being controlled, as if he were a puppet on strings, Amanda using him in any way she wants.

He wonders if Connor has ever experienced something similar.

Nines knows his brother does not tell him everything, that there are secrets between them. Connor may hide it well, but Nines can see right through him. He picks up on every telltale sign of his brother’s distress, from the slight furrow in his brow to the quick flash of fear that reflect in his warm eyes.

He admires Connor; he truly does. When they were still little imps running around on the streets, nothing but thin, worn rags to keep them warm, his brother was the one who kept them alive. Connor stole, lied, and fought, and always took the blame for things, even if he wasn’t the one responsible.

Connor was the one who took the brunt force of everything, all the blame and punishment. He was the one who would always steal a hard loaf of bread for the two of them to share, who held Nines’ shaky hand when he was still afraid of the dark. 

Connor had taught him all he knows about plants, snuck him sweets when Amanda had thrown them all out. His brother would tiptoe into Nines’ room in the middle of the night to light a candle because Amanda never did, and he’d leave it by the windowsill so Nines wouldn’t be so scared.

Connor was the boy who’d patch up his wounds, who goes wide-eyed at passing dogs—he was the person Nines looked up to when they were still in school, because his brother has always been amazing.

Connor had been by his side since day one, and yet there are things Nines is hesitant to tell him.

He’s been a terrible younger brother.

Markus leans back into his chair. “Well?” his stare is sharp, but not unkind. “What’re we gonna do?”

_We._

“I can’t go beyond Detroit’s borders,” Nines admits. “Amanda must’ve done something because she knew I’d try to go back.”

“Damn,” Markus mutters. “I never liked her. No offense, Nines.”

“None taken.”

Simon hums, looking thoughtful. “North can probably get us some info about Perkins. He isn’t the quietest person, after all.”

Markus snaps his fingers. “The bastard doesn’t know her face, or her connection to us.”

“And she can easily slip into the bar he frequents without drawing any attention to herself,” Simon adds.

Nines has seen North a few times. He admits she is quite beautiful; long, red hair and a stern face. During the very little moments they spend together, the florist always notices a fire in her eyes, strong and determined and so unlike any of the other women he’s met before.

She also throws a mean hook. 

(In a way, she reminds Nines of Gavin and Tina combined.)

North also keeps a low profile, preferring to stay in the shadows rather in the glaring spotlight. It’s better for her job, or so she says. Not that Nines had any idea what that is; North tends to be a bit secretive as well.

“I’ll send her a message,” Markus nods, then fixes his gaze onto Nines. “Don’t worry, man. We’ll get you back where you belong.”

As preposterous as it all sounds, Nines believes him.

“Oh!” Simon gasps, shooting up from his chair. “You came here for food, right? I’ll go get you something. Tea?”

“Coffee, actually,” Nines says. He hopes it’s as good as Gavin makes it out to be. Markus leaves with Simon, but not before clapping a reassuring hand onto Nines’ shoulder.

“Trust us.”

And he disappears into the kitchen.

Nines stares out the window, allows the sound of coffee brewing to calm his nerves. The earthy smell alone is enough to make him drowsy; he hasn’t slept well in days. He nearly falls asleep then, but jolts awake when Simon sets a cup down onto the table.

The smell is familiar; perhaps not the exact blend Gavin drinks, but Nines supposes it’s close enough. He thanks Simon and brings the cup to his lips, blowing gently, then taking a sip.

It’s awfully bitter.

He drinks more of it.

Simon comes back soon enough with a sandwich, cut diagonally and served on a neat ceramic plate that Carl likely made himself.

“It’s on us,” the baker tells him, and judging by the rare sternness in his eyes,  he isn’t taking no for an answer.

Nines scarfs the food down, then drowns himself in coffee until there isn’t a drop left. He wipes his mouth and leans back, content. The bakery is warm and smells heavenly; he wouldn’t mind spending more of his time here.

At some point, Simon slips back into the kitchen as well, something about Markus potentially ruining the cream bread. Nines closes his eyes, lets himself relax and bathe in the silence.

The kitchen door creaks open moments later, and when he tears his eyes open, he isn’t expecting to see Carl Manfred himself. The old man locks his gaze with Nines, rolls himself toward him using his wheelchair.

“I can already tell by your expression that you’re lost,” Carl says, perching himself next to the florist.

“What do you mean?” Nines asks curiously.

“Those two didn’t tell me anything—not that I expected them to. Trust is a good thing to have, after all,” the painter traces the tattoos that wrap around his arm on his aged skin. “But the one thing that I _do_ know is that you’re not meant to be here. At least, that’s what you think.”

Nines’ entire body seizes up.

“That’s—that isn’t true.”

“It is,” Carl tells him softly. “And that’s okay. I knew you wanted to be elsewhere long before the whole beast thing happened. You always had this...sad look in your eyes that most people mistook for apathy, but I knew better.”

“...what are you trying to say?” Nines asks, tugging on the collar of his turtleneck.

“Nothing, really. I’m just an old man spewing nonsense that people consider ‘wisdom’ just for the hell of it.

“But listen to me carefully, son. I have no idea what Amanda taught you when you and Connor were still kids, but I just want you to know one thing.”

Nines doesn’t say anything, is too _afraid_ to say anything.

Carl lets out a breath, low and rumbly. He, too, stares out the window like it shows him the entire world and not just a street and buildings.

“What a privilege it is to even love another.”

The words hit Nines like an oncoming flood, a sudden tidal wave, a harsh rainstorm. His chest tightens, and for some odd reason he feels like crying again.

“How—”

“I can tell,” Carl says, tapping his temple. “I know what love looks like because I see it everyday.” He gestures behind him to the kitchen door where Markus and Simon have retreated to.

Nines swallows dryly, looks down at his lap. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, sounding defeated. “Amanda has—she has _magic_. How on earth am I supposed to deal with that? And Perkins, that damn dog, has a whole group of hunters on his side. They may not be able to slay a beast, but—”

 _But they can slay people who can barely move_ , he doesn’t say. Instead, Nines clamps his mouth shut, hates himself for pouring all of his emotions onto Carl like this. Silence hangs in the air. He can’t bring himself to steal a glance at the old man’s face.

“You’ll find a way,” Carl tells him softly. “It might not seem so easy at first, but nothing worthy of doing in this world is. I have no true answer to give you, Nines, but it’s completely up to you how this chapter of your life ends. Either continue it, or leave it be.”

Before he leaves, Carl adds, “I like your necklace, by the way. Emeralds are quite pretty, huh?”

He can’t help but agree.

Nines takes the painter’s words to heart. He thinks long and hard about them, thinking harder still even as he slips under the covers that night.

“I’ll come back to you,” he whispers eventually, into the open air. Nines thumbs at the jewel sitting on his chest. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

He talks to his brother the next morning.

“Connor,” Nines calls, and his brother stops in his tracks, a hand on the doorknob of their front door. “Can we talk?”

Connor eyes him warily, but nods. 

“Of course.”

They sit on one of their beige couches that still remain from their childhood, looking just as new as the day Amanda first bought it. 

Connor fiddles with one of the floral pillows, asks, “What is it?”

“When I left, what exactly did Amanda tell you?”

His brother frowns. “Rich…you don’t need to force yourself—”

“I assure you I’m not,” Nines interjects. “I’ve been groveling for three weeks, and I’ve had enough.” He exhales through his nose, posture slumping a bit. “It’s odd. You’re my brother, and yet I avoid you when I need your support the most.”

“I think, perhaps, you’re just afraid. Afraid of whatever happened to you—and I was scared as well. You disappeared for months, and I wasn’t sure if you were ever coming back,” Connor’s voice cracks by the end of it, his eyes glossing over. “And in regards to Amanda...I’m not even sure where to begin.”

Nines’ stomach twists at his brother’s words. He doesn’t want to trouble anyone any more than he already has, but with Connor’s face so ridden with grief, he can’t help but let his emotions bubble out of him like an angry pot of boiling water.

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

“I met someone,” the florist says lowly, decides to stare at a nearby wall rather than his brother. “When I went to search for Amanda, I met someone amazing.”

“She told all of town that you were taken by a beast,” Connor says, confused.

Nines laughs at that. The sound is both somber and merry, and terribly, terribly soft.

“I suppose I was,” he chortles a bit more, shaking his head. “The beast...his name is Gavin, and I—I love him. Very much so.”

The confession hangs heavily in the air, Nines’ heart thumping wildly in his chest. He can hear the beating in his ears, feels it beneath his skin, fear thrumming through his veins. Suddenly, his turtleneck feels a little too tight.

Connor stares at him, wide-eyed and jaw-slacked, at a complete loss for words. Nines shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, digs his nails into his thigh.

“It may sound ridiculous, but when I was with him, I felt like I could conquer the world. And for a little while I forgot all about Amanda and the chains that bind me.” Nines finally finds the strength to look his brother in the eye. Grey meet brown, stern meet soft.

“I will go back to him, even if it means risking everything.”

Connor is quiet for a long while, his expression painfully indifferent. Nines is about to get up and leave. He isn’t sure if he can handle the dreadful silence any longer. When he woke up this morning, he pondered about how this conversation would go, tried to find every path it could take and the directions needed to get there.

But then a voice that sounded strangely like Gavin told him to _Shut up and get the fuck on with it already_ , and so he did.

And now, now Nines is awaiting Connor’s answer. Whether his brother supports him or not, it doesn’t matter.

He made a promise, and he would fight even gods themselves to uphold it.

(Perhaps it’s because Nines knows that Gavin would do the very same for him.)

“Who else?” Connor asks after a suspenseful pause. “Who else knows, Rich?”

“Markus, Simon, and soon, North. Carl too, I believe.”

“Alright,” then, a heartbeat later, “I’m guessing you all already have some sort of plan.”

Nines smiles, and the trench in his chest fills just a smidge.

 

* * *

 

A man walks through the winter storm, unbothered by the harsh flurries of snow and icy winds. His eyes that seem to forever focus on what’s ahead of him are an electric blue, sorcery pulsing at his fingertips.

To his side, a woman, blonde-haired and blank-faced. Their cloaks flutter in the wind as they reach the edge of the hill, ankles deep in white.

The man lets out a chilled breath as he feasts his eyes on the castle in the distance.

“There it is,” Elijah mutters, his voice strong enough to drown out the howling winds. “The home I’d long left behind.”

“Is it time?” the woman, Chloe, asks. Something fierce flashes in her eyes, a look of hunger similar to the one Elijah himself wears.

“Soon,” he says. “I will give that witch her last rites.”

Chloe hums, looks out onto the cursed castle.

“The watch has struck eight.”

“Then Amanda will be desperate to accomplish her goal.”

“Do you think you can stop her?”

“Of course,” Elijah smiles, sharp and cunning, like a fox. “I’m the older brother, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character Description:
> 
> Carl Manfred is the father of Markus, and the own of Manfred’s Bakery. He is also a very talented and well-known painter in Detroit. He passed on his knowledge to Markus, who, in turn, passed it onto Simon. Carl has been struck by a persistent disease, but death has yet to take him completely. He doesn’t intend on dying until Markus and Simon are married.


	10. A Dreadful Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang forms a game plan while Gavin mourns.

His eyes fly open, his breath stuttered as he wakes from his slumber. A ceiling—but not the one in his room in Detroit. No, this one is unblemished and gold-rimmed and so, so familiar.

“You okay, Nines?”

Nines moves his gaze to the source of the voice.

Gavin has the kerosene lamp flicked on, its low but bright flame softening every sharp edge on the beast’s face, making him look more gentle, more human. Nines releases a breath, then sits up, the expensive blanket pooling around his waist.

Gavin reaches over and runs his fingertips over the bare skin of the florist’s arm. Goosebumps rise wherever he touched, leaving Nines’ skin hot and thrumming. He allows himself to lean further in to the beast’s touch.

Nines’ hair is rather damp from sweat—his skin, too, feels gross from the nightmare he’d just dreamt of. He shivers, recalling the fright of it all. Gavin continues to touch him, to draw patterns into his flesh with his thumb. The florist’s heart settles, his breaths smooth out. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Gavin asks eventually, letting his hand rest on Nines’ thigh. Nines takes the beast’s hand into his own.

“I left you,” he says softly, eyes downcast. “I let them take me away from you—and I-I know it wasn’t real, but still it felt so, so—”

Gavin squeezes his hand when Nines trails off there. “But you didn’t. At least not in real life.” The beast shifts, takes Nines’ face in his palms, thumbs caressing his cheekbones. “I’m still here with you, aren’t I?”

Nines sighs. It comes out shaky, despite the firm hold Gavin has on him. “I suppose you are,” he says.

“Then you don’t got a damn thing to worry about, babe.” Then Gavin grins, lopsided and revealing all his broken-glass teeth. Nines loves this smile the most, regardless of how much Gavin despises it. There is something about the way it lifts the beast’s eyes, makes them shine a little brighter. Gavin is just so _pretty,_ so pretty and precious that Nines can’t fathom the idea of ever leaving someone who makes him feel so very much alive.

“Come here, darling,” Nines beckons, and they lean in for a kiss.

When he pulls back, Gavin’s face is melting like ice, dripping off his bones. The room darkens and shifts, and suddenly the air around them grows tight. Nines’ heart thrums violently with newfound fear as he tries to reach out to the beast.

“Gavin?!” he yells, attempts to catch the melting flesh dripping from Gavin’s face to no avail. His breaths are fierce, but the stabbing pain in his temple is fiercer. A vice like grip encloses around Nines’ throat, clean-cut nails digging into fair skin.

“Wake up, Nines,” Amanda says into his ear, low and bone rattling. It sends a jolt of absolute fear down into the very bottom of Nines’ gut. “before you forget how to.”

He is tumbling off the bed, shaken awake from his dream state. The room—his room—spins as he falls, taking the ratty blankets down with him. Nines groans and pushes himself up.

It’s still dark, the moon hanging high in the star-filled sky, like an ornament. Crickets chirp outside, and though they are loud, oddly Nines finds the noise to be peaceful. He closes his eyes and rubs his temple, trying to chase away the phantom pain.

Amanda is nowhere to be found, nowhere near him, and yet she still finds a way to haunt him.

Nines falls back onto his old bed, twisting the emerald stone around his finger until he falls asleep again.

In the morning, he and Connor prepare breakfast for five. Markus, Simon, and North are coming over today to formally discuss the plan and think things through. Nines’ stomach buzzes with excitement—just the mere thought of seeing Gavin again has him feeling ecstatic and giddy.

He misses him. Too much.

The twins plate the food and lay it out on the round table. Connor fetches the silverware and sets the places, adjusting things as need be. Moments later, there is a knock at the door. Nines pads over to let them in.

“Something smells good,” North comments when the door opens. She steps inside and shucks her boots off, giving Nines a slap to the back. He figures that’s her way of showing affection.

“Sorry about her,” Simon says bashfully, palming his forehead. “I told her not to be rude, but…”

“It’s quite fine,” Nines dismisses gesturing for them to come inside so he can shut the door. “I am grateful you all are so accepting and helpful regardless.”

“Of course, Nines,” Markus affirms as they walk to the dining room. “You deserve to be happy. And if going back to this...beast will do that, then why the hell not go all out?”

“Simon, Markus!” Connor greets as they walk in just as he pours North a tall thing of juice. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well, it was our idea, after all,” Markus says simply, taking a seat next to Simon.

“Is Josh not coming?” Connor asks, to which North scoffs.

“He’s too pacifistic with this kind of stuff. But, god, it’s not like we’re killing anybody,” she says, digging right into her food and shoveling a forkful into her mouth.

“He’d rather not risk a bad reputation...you know, with his wife and son and all,” Simon explains, stabbing a sausage.

They make small talk after that. Nines quietly listens to everyone’s stories of how work has been or how their lives are going. North complains about not finding anyone to marry yet, says she’s worried about having kids late even though she’s fairly young herself.

Markus and Simon are in the midst of planning their own wedding, to everyone’s surprise. One in the fall, perhaps, since summers in Detroit are atrocious. Then again, no season in their town was ever lenient.

Connor talks about how the shop is going, but nothing else. Nines doesn’t say anything at all, and no one comments on it.

“Alright,” Markus claps his hands together after they finish cleaning up. They’re sat in the living room now, everyone huddled together on the plush couches. “North was able to find out a few things I think will work in our favor.”

“I overheard one of Perkins’ lackeys at the tavern the other day, talking about a raid in the woods. The dumbass couldn’t keep his mouth shut and basically told off the entire plan,” North says, balancing her elbows on her knees. “A week from now, they’ll launch their attack on the beast’s castle. I have no idea how many of them there are, but I could try to find out.”

“Excellent,” Connor chirps, clasping his hands together. “Now, we need to find a way to ward off Perkins and his men before they’re able to do any real damage.”

“I’m sure Gavin alone will be able to fend for the entire castle,” Nines supplies, recalling the size of him in his beast form, the force of his jaws and the sharpness of his teeth. “After all, Gavin is quite fast. And strong.”

“Doesn’t mean shit if he’s trying to fight off more hunters than he can manage,” North huffs.

“What about the servants?” Markus asks. “Can they fight?”

Nines thinks about their curse, their hardening joints and stony skin. “No, I don’t think they can.”

They mull over the rest of the plan. Nines knows he should be listening, should be hanging on to every crucial detail because this is _Gavin_ they’re trying to save, but he can’t help but think _What if he doesn’t want saving?_ Nines’ chest twinges at the thought, has him fiddling with the ends of his turtleneck. Gavin doesn’t know he left unwillingly. The florist had been so cruelly torn away from the beast, and he in turn thought Nines did so out of choice.

But it was impossible to not see the way Nines’ eyes glazed over as his control was ripped away from him. Despite Gavin’s scornful personality, he isn’t stupid. His perceptiveness was something Nines admired. The beast was quite skillful when it came to problem-solving, much like Nines himself. He caught on to minor details that anyone else would’ve glossed over. Perhaps that’s why they were so good at solving the silly little riddles Alice would read to them from one of her books.

Nines hopes with all of himself that Gavin knows. He hopes he knows the florist would never leave him, would never _want_ to leave him even if the gods themselves thought their relationship was something sinful.

All Nines wants is to go running back into Gavin’s arms, his pride be damned. Nothing was worth the loss of his other.

As the meeting comes to a close, Nines tells himself that Gavin wants him to come back, that he would accept him with open arms.

He trusts him to.

 

* * *

 

“Rich,” Connor calls as he shuts the door, waving goodbye to their friends.

Nines is nervously fiddling with the couch pillows when he answers, “Yes?”

His brother walks closer, plops himself down next to him. Connor gets settled, looking regretful.

“When you were gone,” he starts, keeping his gaze trained on anything but Nines’ face, “I knew of Amanda’s plans. I watched her walk into that bar and trick those idiots into thinking you were kidnapped by a beast because you wanted to be a hero.

“I didn’t even think you were alive, Rich. I thought that beast had eaten you raw the moment Amanda came back home in tears. I was a fool to think those tears were real, and an even bigger one to believe in her story.” Connor’s brows are wrinkled, drawn into a tight knot of regret. Nines wants to comfort him and tell him it was okay, but his brother continues on.

“I’m just—my thoughts are all over the place, right now. Because clearly, the beast— _Gavin_ is important to you. So much so that you’re willing to go up against Perkins and his men,” Connor pauses, sucks in a harsh breath through his nose, “And I spent so many months loathing Gavin’s existence—I thought he’d _killed_ you. But when you came back home in one piece and woke a few hours later, crying about something I didn’t understand at the time, I knew that Gavin wasn’t at all who I thought he was. And I knew that your tears were real.”

Connor trails off after that, leaving the two brothers in a stretched silence. Nines curls his hands into fists in his lap.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks quietly.

“I felt like it needed to be said,” Connor replies simply.

Nines looks his brother in the eye. “Are you certain that you’re alright with all of this? I know it’s sudden, and—”

“I’m okay. You deserve to be happy, Rich.”

Nines uncurls his fists, lets them relax against his thighs. “Thank you,” he says. “When all of this is over, perhaps you can properly meet him. Gavin, I mean.”

Connor’s eyes widen at the thought. “Would you like me to?”

“Must you always ask the obvious? Of course I would. And I think you would like his castle, they have a dog, after all.”

His brother’s eyes glimmer. “Do they?”

“His name is Sumo.”

“It feels like you’re leaving a crucial detail out.”

Nines smirks. Connor knows him too well.

“Sumo’s owner might catch your eye. Hank is his name—”

“Rich!”

“—and he looks to be just your type. It’s almost uncanny, in a way. I can introduce you if you’d like.”

Connor shoots up from his seat, his face red. “I’ll go tend the garden,” he says hastily, zooming out the back door.

Nines laughs to himself. He hasn’t felt this light and happy in a long time. But if their plan works, then he’s sure he’ll feel just as ecstatic as he was before all of this.

His hand comes up to fiddle with the emerald hanging from his neck. Nines hopes Gavin knows he is still with him, always, even when they’re miles apart.

 

* * *

 

In the depths of the cursed forest, the icy winds blow harsher, the snow falling without mercy. The castle shakes with a silent fury, something fierce brewing in the west wing, where the beast looms.

He is hunched over the pocket watch, which was once a bright, shimmering blue, but is now nothing but a faint glow of azure. Its hour hand is stuck on the eight, counting down the last minutes, seconds, before the castle will succumb to its curse, and everything in it will be gone forever.

Everything but Gavin.

He can’t even bear the thought of being alone again. It had almost taken him the first time, that terrible loneliness. In a matter of days, Gavin will have nothing, will have nobody. And here he will stay, forever, because there was no one who could truly love a beast.

Like a fool, he was played like a cheap instrument made for children. Gavin was so desperate to break the curse, so blinded by his determination that he failed to see Nines’ true intentions. And he hates himself for it.

But Gavin hates Nines even more.

He turns away from the pocket watch, can’t bear to look at it any longer. It was a daunting reminder of what was to come. Gavin walks the cold, lonely halls of the castle, too big for one person.

He remembers when people would fill these same hallways like saltwater does the ocean all those years ago. How their chattering would never leave room for a quiet moment, how their jewelry was so shiny Gavin had to look away for the sake of his sight.

The beast resists the urge to punch a hole in one of the grand walls, no matter how terribly his fingers itch to do so. Instead Gavin digs his nails into the meat of his palms, tries to keep his composure steady. He stops walking, then stares out one of the frost-ridden windows.

There is nothing but a harsh winter coating the ground and the trees, a view he’d become very much accustomed to after all these years. The sky is a weak gray, snow falling from the clouds in unforgiving flurries. For the longest time, Gavin has only known the bitter cold and the ice that follows. It was like that for what felt like centuries, until a feverishly handsome florist had stumbled into his life, and everything had become undone.

Gavin has never felt as happy as when Nines was here.

But now, now even the man he once breathed sweet whispers to is gone. Ripped away from him rather literally, as if Nines was a fancy piece of jewelry hanging from Gavin’s neck. The beast raises his fingers to touch the necklace that actually sits on his collarbones. He can’t bring himself to take it off, even though it’s been weeks since Nines left. It felt wrong, like he was breaking some sort of promise. 

(Even though Nines had broken that promise first.) 

So Gavin lets the sapphire stay, forever a gentle yet fierce reminder of what was. Of who Nines was.

A coldness overcomes him suddenly, so abrupt he stumbles backwards, his body trembling. Gavin brings his arms up to wrap around himself, staying clear from the window that shields him from the storm. In his ears is a ringing so faint he thinks he must be imagining it.

“What the fuck?” Gavin says to himself, dropping his arms. Goosebumps litter up and down his skin, the little hairs raising. After one last squint out the window, he hurries down the hall, not wanting to be alone for any longer.

Gavin finds her sitting in one of the common rooms. Her neck can barely turn to look at him as he comes in. Tina gives the beast a stiff smile, almost all of her body encompassed in a stoney white. One of her eyes is frozen in place, the other sure to follow suit in time. And her hair, her beautiful, dark hair that she took pride in for so long, is nothing but a hard white.

A statue. His best friend has been reduced to a statue.

“Hey, Gav,” Tina says softly, speaking as loudly as her half-turned stone mouth would allow her.

“Hey, Tiny,” Gavin greets back. It’s been a while since he’s last used that nickname. “You uh, doin’ okay?” He knows it’s a stupid question, but what more is there to say?

Tina sighs, and her shoulders would probably sag a little if they could. “I mean, staying a dumb rock forever kinda sucks, but I think I’ve already accepted it.”

Gavin is hesitant to take a seat next to her, but he forces himself to do so anyway. It’s the least he can do for her. “I’m so sorry, Tina—”

“Don’t you fucking start, Reed!” Tina yells, her one eye scowling something fierce. “It’s not your fault. No one thinks it is, so don’t apologize.”

Gavin bites down on his tongue. He tastes metal. He isn’t sure what else there is to say besides _I’m sorry._

Neither of them speak, too much on their minds. After a few more minutes, Gavin rises from the sofa.

“If we all had our entire lives ahead of us, I would’ve taken you out to see all the places you’ve ever wanted to go to. Someplace warm where you could eat your favorite kind of ice cream and go swimming in a lake, or look up at the corny-ass stars without having to worry about frostbite,” Gavin sees Tina try to interrupt, but he doesn’t let her, “I wish my brother was a decent enough person to not curse us all to high hell, but I guess that’s the type of shitty luck I have.

“I wish you could see other seasons besides winter. I wish you could’ve gone out and started a family like the one you’ve always dreamed of having; I wish I could’ve watched your wedding and taken care of your brat when you’re busy. I wish I could give you a fucking future. But most of all,” Gavin’s throat constricts, but he forces the words out nonetheless. He ignores the burning in his eyes, “I wish you didn’t have to worry about me being alone when you turn, because that’s the kind of annoying person you are.”

Gavin wipes vigorously at his face, hates Tina seeing him like this even though he knows she doesn’t care. “Fuck.” He can’t bear to look at her, the guilt is too much. It swallows him completely, dragging him down to the depths.

Tina says nothing even as he nearly rips the door off its hinges in his hurry to escape. The world around him becomes but a blur, whether that’s because of how fast he’s running or his tears, he doesn’t know. Gavin flies down the main staircase, bursts out of the castle doors. The cold means nothing to him as he unfurls his wings, spanning them out wide before he takes off into the sharp winds.

Gavin isn’t sure where he’s going or what he’s going to do when he gets there. He just flies above the snow-stained trees, leaving the castle and all its wrath and tears behind.

He gets tired eventually and swoopes down, skidded into the snow until he comes to a full stop. It’s hard to breathe when your lungs are coated in frost. Gavin pants, leaning against a tree. He is feeling too many things right now, too many emotions; they overwhelm him and he succumbs to the pressure.

Gavin digs his nails into the rough bark of the tree, leaving deep claw marks no human was capable of making. He turns around, terrified of himself. _Who is he? Who was he before the curse?_ He can’t seem to remember.

Gavin clenches his teeth together as they painfully grow in size and poke his gums. He feels himself unraveling, becomes less human and more monstrous. Gavin’s horns elongate and curl, his entire body shifting to accommodate the sudden changes. His legs become unsteady so that he sways in the snow, curling in on himself as the beast takes over.

A roar rips its way through his throat like a lion’s paw. It echoes through the forest, causes some of the snow to fall from its branches and the winterborne animals to scatter. Gavin swipes at another tree, makes a mess of it so that it looks just as torn and ruined as he feels. He does this to a few more trees until he is exhausted, takes out all his anger and sadness on things that can’t move. They are forced to withstand his fury, his wrath.

Gavin hears a rustle coming from his left. Golden eyes emerge from the bushes and trees. Predators who have no idea of what’s to come. Wolves, the pesky things, surround him on all sides, snarling and curling their savage lips back.

He gives a loud growl on his own, but still they do not back down. They chose to ignore his warning.

So be it.

Before the first one can pounce, Gavin attacks first. He sinks his claws into the wolf closest to him and flings it across the snow, staining it a deep red. He howls, and so do the wolves that dare cross him. There are so many of them piling on, digging their teeth into his flesh so that he, too, bleeds and turns the soft snow into something terrible.

Frustrated, Gavin shifts even further, discarding his human body for a more beastly one. A manticore erupts from a sea of wolves; the poor things are flung from him as he easily shakes them off. Now he is so much bigger, so much stronger. (Although he is anything but.) His feathery wings stretch out wide, his scorpion tail towering above his head, pointing menacingly at the wolf pack. Gavin’s poison burns like the heat of a thousand suns.

It’s rare that he would ever shift so far. He doesn’t like how animalistic it makes him, how absolutely _feral_ he becomes when he’s like this.

But it doesn’t matter anymore, because soon, nothing will.  
  


The wolves cower before him, ears pressed to their skulls. A thunderous roar escapes him, and they scurry away like simple dogs, whines coming from their throats. Gavin looks around at the bloody mess, doesn’t even flinch at the sight of the wolf corpses and the blood.

No longer does he smell the cleanliness of winter. Now he smells nothing but the stench of death.

 

* * *

 

Gavin flies back to the castle hours later. He let himself cool down, retracted his claws and horns, tucked his wings and broken-glass teeth away. He is himself again, and not some savage beast. His clothing is torn and there is blood splattered along his neck and jaw. Gavin hurries inside, not wanting to draw any attention to himself.

He knows they must’ve been wondering where he was, but he doesn’t want them to ask questions. He isn’t in the mood. Luckily, very few people go downstairs at all anymore. Gavin manages to sneak his way back to his room, slips through the door easily enough. There he all but rips his shirt off and heads to the lavatory, where he starts to draw a bath, hot enough that he’s sure it’ll cleanse his blood-stained skin.

Gavin immerses himself in the boiling water, lets the coldness of winter melt away. He stays there until the water turns cold and the steam clears, but even as this happens he does not stir to get up. He does not stir at all.

 

* * *

 

Nines is at Manfred’s Bakery again, treating himself to some egg tarts and coffee. They aren’t a particularly fine combination, but he figures they complement each other well enough. He hears the kitchen door squeak open, Carl wheeling himself in. The old painter rolls up to him and says nothing at first, which doesn’t bother Nines in the slightest. They enjoy each other’s company in a gentle quiet.

Then, Carl says, “I hear you’re going back to him.”

Nines nods, “I am.”

“Are you afraid?”

He thinks for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

Carl manages a smile. “Good, then.” He claps a hand down on Nines’ knee. “When you _do_ get back to him, bring him here sometime. I’m sure he’ll like the coffee.”

“Of course,” Nines says, smiling slightly. He would _love_ to show Gavin the city he grew up in. As dirty and loud it can be sometimes, Detroit is home to him. A place where he can go back to, and there would still be people waiting for him there.

Is Gavin still waiting for him?

(He hopes so.)

“Markus and Simon are also coming along, huh,” Carl says, crossing his arms. “Leaving me here to take care of the bakery myself, those imps.”

“Josh will be here in their stead,” Nines supplies. The man has never been the violent type, after all. He’s the exact opposite of North, never overbearing and always kind, even in the most difficult of situations. Josh is good company to be around.

Carl snorts, “That boy can’t bake to save his life.”

“It will only be for one night.”

“I suppose that’s true.” The painter sighs, then slides his weak-blue eyes over to Nines. “I’ve heard that Amanda still hasn’t returned.”

“She hasn’t, which is...concerning, to say the least. Connor and I have no idea what it is she’s planning,” Nines tells him. “Whatever it is, it must be something big. Otherwise she wouldn’t have left so shortly after I’d returned, and for so long at that.”

Nines might not be afraid of returning to Gavin, but he _is_ afraid of confronting Amanda. She terrifies him more than anything.

Carl hums, as if fetching a memory of long ago. “She’s changed a lot since we were younger. Back then, back before she took you and your brother in, Amanda was a good woman. Smart, unlike anyone had ever seen before. She was respectable, too, but then one day...I don’t know what on earth made her change so dramatically. It was like meeting an entirely new person,” he says sadly, with tired eyes. “She had this—this _hunger_ in her eyes that terrified me. Especially since she was taking care of you boys, I was scared for the both of you. But I knew I couldn’t do much to stop her, Amanda’s always been an annoyingly unstoppable force.”

Nines blinks, stunned. “You—you were friends, once?”

Carl chuckles, “I guess you could say that. I was an artist and she, a woman of science. We were never particularly close, but we _did_ compete a lot in school, though she was always one step ahead of me. We had a friendly rivalry until we didn’t.”

Nines sits back and takes all this in. Amanda has never been the type to open up about her past; she’s much like Nines in that regard, keeps it tucked away instead of showing it to the world.

The single similarity makes him shudder.

Carl must’ve sensed something is wrong, because he says, “I’m sorry, Nines. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just reminiscing about the past, as old men do.”

“No, it’s fine,” Nines dismissed quickly. “It’s nice to hear good things about her, I suppose.” He stands, then, gathering his trash and belongings. “Connor is expecting me back at the shop soon. I will see you some other time, Mr. Manfred.”

As he’s throwing his trash away, Carl scolds, “How many times have I told you to call me ‘Carl’? You don’t need to be so formal around me, son.”

Nines falters at the door, nodding. “Of course, Carl. I’ll be off, then.

The sun is just beginning to set when he walks back to the shop. He admires the way the sky bleeds into oranges and yellows with streaks of pink here and there. As calming as it is, it can’t compare to the view at the top of the castle. It had blown Nines’ breath away when he first saw it, like he himself was on the very top of the world.

He always felt that way when he was with Gavin.

Fidgeting with his necklace has become some kind of a nervous tick now. Nines can’t fall asleep without twirling the thin silver chain around his finger. He rarely takes it off now, as he feels too bare with it off. Besides, he likes to think Gavin is doing the same.

He wonders how he’s fairing nowadays. The question has his stomach churning with anxiety, like a storm of fireflies raging in his gut. Nines hopes Gavin is doing well despite everything.

Soon, they’ll be together again.

In three days, Perkins and his men will attack the castle.

In three days, Gavin will either welcome Nines back with open arms or he will have his head.

In three days, it will all come undone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, sorry for the long wait. but anyway, i'm in the midst of writing another fic called "brighter than the sun." it's kiribaku, so go check it out if you're interested. :^)


	11. From the Kiln

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are never meant to be told.

When Gavin peels his eyes open, he is cold.

He had fallen asleep in the pool, his skin pruned and wrinkled beyond comprehension. Gavin suppresses a shudder that racks through his body, his flesh littered with goosebumps.

The beast rises from the pool, his sore knees popping, and doesn’t bother to drain it. He feels like shit, and he’s certain he looks the part, too. Gavin wipes his runny nose after he wraps a towel around himself, his hair a damp mess.

His wounds are still open and bleeding slightly, but he doesn’t do much to them other than dab them dry with another towel. Gavin heels quickly, anyway; it’s another beastly quirk of his.

Once dressed, he climbs into bed and pulls the covers right over his body as to gather as much heat as possible. Without another body laying next to his, it’s much harder to stay warm.

Gavin scrubs his tired face; he hasn’t shaved in a good deal of time. The stubble is now an unruly beard that he finds more annoying than anything. He supposes to trim it in the morning, when he’ll hopefully have more energy.

The beast turns to lay on his side, eyes the empty spot next to him. Moonlight trickles through the window and casts itself onto Nines’ side of the bed. A pile of books sit on the nightstand, untouched since the day he left.

That night was certainly a strange one. Nines looked more stoney than Gavin had ever seen him, his eyes distance and far away. Even the way he started down the stairs seemed too forced, now that the beast truly thinks about it.

Gavin had pushed that terrible memory back with all of himself, and yet it still finds a way back to him.

Perhaps...Nines genuinely did not want to leave.

He holds on to that little sliver of hope, that tiny _what if._ Gavin fiddles with his necklace, gazes upon the empty space next to him. The beast imagines Nines shirtless, in all his glory and bathed in the light of the morning sun. He always looked so good no matter the time of day.

Gavin misses him dearly, but still there is something akin to bitterness in his chest. It coils around his heart like a viper, poisonous and deadly. The feeling pokes at the sleeping beast within, coaxes the monster out. Gavin reels it back in, suppresses it. He’s already let his anger out, already made a mess in the snow.

A tear escapes the corner of his eye. Gavin pushes his face into the softness of his pillow and breathes. He recalls a time where he’d gotten so angry when Ralph had accidentally destroyed part of the garden, which just happened to be Nines’ favorite flowers.

Gavin had yelled, _screamed_ at the poor man who lowered his head in shame. Ralph has stammered out multiple apologies, promised Nines he would fix it and make it better.

Nines has assured the gardener it would be fine, and that what was destroyed could always be restored.

The beast, however, did not take too kindly to any of Ralph’s frantic ramblings. He was furious, because the man was a _gardener,_ after all. It was his _job_ to tend the gardens, and he was supposed to be _good_ at it.

(Sometimes, when Gavin is so unlike himself, more beast than human, he forgets to think.)

Nines had dragged him away from Ralph, and despite all his kicking and screaming, took them back to their bedroom. The florist had sat Gavin down and brought him into his arms, rubbed his back soothingly, whispering into Gavin’s ear.

“Just breathe, darling,” the florist had said, pressing a kiss to his temple. Gavin’s face was pressed into the crook of Nines’ neck, his nostrils flaring.

Soon, Gavin’s heart was no longer pounding in his chest. It had settled into a quiet, steady rhythm with Nines’ gentle cooing.

“He didn’t mean it,” the florist said. “Give him a break, even the most skilled must make mistakes sometimes.”

“I know,” Gavin mumbled back. “I gotta apologize to him now. Shit.”

Nines had hummed, “Yes, you do. But let us wait until morning. Give him some space.”

Gavin closes his eyes at the memory, adoration blooming in his chest. Nines was...good. Too good for him, sometimes. He always wondered how he got so lucky, like the gods had finally given him a break and ushered a florist too pretty for his own good in his arms and said _here, for all the other shit you’ve had to put up with_.

Perhaps that is why it had hurt so much when the luck ran out.

Gavin breathes again, and it isn’t long until he falls asleep. He dreams of a cunning smirk and fair skin.

 

* * *

 

There is something dangerous brewing in the streets of Detroit.

Nines can feel it in the air, the bloodlust that comes with revenge. For what exactly, he doesn’t know—the florist just has a strong inkling that something bad is going to happen. Sometimes, when Nines lingers too closely to the edge of Detroit, he can feel a tug on the back of his neck, a red light flashing in the corner of his eye.

The message from Amanda is clear: do not go into the woods.

(Nines will find a way regardless.)

He reluctantly joined Connor and his friends at some tavern not too far from the shop. North said something about loosening up before the big show, but Nines thinks she’s just desperate for a free drink.

Connor was paying, after all.

So Nines let his brother drag him by the arm and usher him into an old booth that smelled of something strangely sour. He wrinkles his nose, this is why he usually refuses to go to these types of places.

Nines folds his arms across his chest, straightening his spine and sneering at the crowd of people downing alcohol by the barrel. A group of musicians play their instruments on stage, dancing and jumping around with booze in their veins. He’s very much unamused.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have opened a few bottles of our own. We have some at the house,” Nines remarks, tapping his foot irately.

“It’s not the same,” North says, swatting her hand at him. “Besides, the drinks here are better.”

“That seems highly untrue.”

“You don't know that.”

“You don’t know if it’s _false_.”

“Alright, break it up,” Markus says, setting their drinks down with Simon at his side. Nines was unaware that they had even gotten up to fetch the drinks. Markus slides Nines’ mug to him, scratching the table as it goes. It sloshes around and almost spills over the rim.

Nines gazes into the pool of foam at the top and pushes the mug away.

“I am not drinking that.”

Conner nudges him with his elbow. “Come on, Rich. At least try it,” he begs, giving Nines his signature pout. It’s quite hard to resist those puppy-like eyes.

“I’ve meant to say this for awhile now,” North starts, taking a swig of beer, “Dude’s a hardass.”

Simon sighs, “North…”

“It’s quite soft, thank you,” Nines bites, glaring down at her. She may be tall, but he still has a few inches on her.

“Oh boy,” Connor mumbles into his drink.

“Let this happen,” Markus says, seemingly unbothered by their bickering.

North’s lips pull into a smirk. She’s about to say something crude, he’s sure, but the tavern doors burst open, and a group of men walk through. Nines sneers at the sight of Perkins leading them, tries to keep his head low as to not draw the hunter’s attention to himself.

Out of all the taverns, it had to be this one.

Nines makes a mental note to better insist he stay home next time.

“Ladies and gentleman of Detroit,” Perkins barks, spreading his arms wide as he trots in. Heads turn to look at him, a hushed whisper falling amongst the crowd. The music stops, let’s him speak, “I’m sure you’re all aware of the hideous beast lurking in our woods.”

Nines digs his fingers into his arm.

“And I know of the terror it brings you and your children, and so I’ve come here to make it known that my men and I will slay the very beast that haunts us. Death to the beast!”

Perkins pumps a gloved fist into the air, his men cheering him on behind him.

“Death to the beast!”

“Death to the beast!”

The tavern walls shake with how loud the people are cheering. They climb onto tables and clink their mugs of beer together, drunkenly singing of killing the beast that threatens their safety.

The musicians start up again, singing off key and strumming their flutes with a newfound passion, for the beast in the woods would finally be slain, and their city would be safe once again.

Nines is only aware of how tense his friends are when he hears Markus slam his mug onto the wooden table, shaking it on its legs. Simon immediately puts a hand on his shoulder, murmurs something to him that gets lost in the uproar.

Just when he thought it was over, Perkins grabs the attention of the crowd again.

“And when I finally do kill that wretched beast, I’ll take a special someone’s hand in marriage,” he says slyly, and the crowd goes wild. Women jump from their seats, raising their arms as if Perkins would pick the finest one he saw.

Instead, his eyes find Nines’ in the sea of people, and he smiles that crooked smile.

Nines’ heart swoops so low he stops breathing.

“That’s what the deal was, anyway!” Perkins yells, laughing as he does so. His lackeys laugh with him, clapping him on the back and whistling seductively.

“Maybe we _do_ have to kill someone,” North says lowly, her eyes cold as she stares at Perkins, the center of attention.

“Let’s not aim for it,” Markus says, but his gaze, too, is stoney and intimidating.

Nines relaxes somewhat at their words. He is grateful to have friends that are so willing to help him.

A hand squeezes his shoulder. Connor gives him a soft look, says, “Don’t worry, Rich. We’ll make sure you won’t be sold off to some barbarous idiot.”

Nines flicks his gaze to the table, grips his arms so hard his knuckles turn white.

“I did not think Amanda would go so far,” he says darkly.

Connor is quiet for a moment before he says, “Neither did I.”

North jumps from her seat, the table shaking so violently Nines fears it might flip over.

“The alcohol is spoiled now,” she says, shrugging her coat back on, “C’mon, let’s crack open some bottles of our own.”

They slink out of the bar without much trouble, although Nines has to bear strangers bumping into him and spilling their drinks on his clothes. Women flutter their eyes at him, waving their hands and curling a painted finger to beckon him over.

Nines ignores them, but he feels Perkins’ burning gaze on the back of his head until he walks out the tavern doors. The florist would rather die than become his plaything.

North cracks open a few bottles of expensive wine from Amanda’s cabinet as soon as they reach the house. Connor grabs a few glasses and pours the rich, purple liquid a little less than halfway.

Markus lifts his glass in the air. “To saving the beast,” he says, to which they cheer back in unison. Nines allows himself to smile, tilts his head back and sips at the wine. Bittersweet, like smelling a rose and pricking your thumb on one of its thorns, or like how the sun lowers itself just to make way for the moon.

The wine is awfully bittersweet, much like Nines and Gavin.

The florist takes another sip, leans back into the soft couch. His friends dive into their own conversations, smiling as the wine loosens them up. Warmth courses through Nines’ chest. He uses their talking as background noise while he allows himself to really feel for the first time in awhile.

Connor pours Nines another glass of wine, and again he tips it back, then downs another. By the end of the night his cheeks have turned a bright pink, and his head feels a bit hazy. Markus and Simon try to pry North’s hands off of a wine bottle, the woman clutching it to her chest as if it were something precious.

Connor insists she keep it, and she happily skips out the door in a drunken manner. Simon apologizes for her behavior, the baker only tipsy himself. He can’t hold his alcohol well, apparently. Markus hooks an arm around his partner’s shoulders and they both wave goodbye, Markus stumbling a bit as they go. Nines wonders if he had wrapped his arm around Simon’s shoulders for support rather than intimacy.

Nines helps his brother with the empty glasses, drying them while Connor washes.

“Are you okay, Rich?” Connor asks as he hands him a wine glass, dripping wet.

Nines takes it, toweling it dry. “I’m fine. Why?”

“What Perkins said earlier—”

Nines slams the glass down with a little too much force. “It’s fine.”

“Rich.”

Nines inspects the glass for any cracks, his brows knitting together. “I don’t care for him or his words, Connor,” he says, and he means it.

“I’m aware,” Connor says, shutting the faucet off. “But I also know how hard things must be for you right now.”

Nines grabs the last wine glass from Connor’s hand, dries it absentmindedly. “Where are you going with this?”

“...while Perkins may not kill you, there is a chance that he will hurt you. Or at least one of his men will. He’s always been the type to play dirty, Rich, and even if he likes you, he won’t let you stand in his way.”

“The bastard has poor aim anyway, I doubt he’d be able to seriously injure me.”

“I’m being serious, Rich,” Connor sighs, toweling his hands.

“As am I,” Nines remarks, putting the wine glasses away.

“What we’re planning to do in two days is life changing. We could come back with grave injuries, or—”

“We may not even come back at all,” Nines finishes, turning to face his brother. Connor’s face is twisted in obvious concern, his forehead crinkled and lips pulled downwards in a discontent frown.

“...are you having second thoughts about this?” Nines asks after a beat of silence.

In Connor’s eyes, he finds his answer.

And maybe it’s the wine or the fact that he misses Gavin like crazy, but Nines’ mood changes for the worst. His fingers curl into fists, his temper flaring.

“I thought you would support me no matter what,” he hisses.

Connor purses his lips into a thin, tense line. He looks away. “What if what you want is not entirely worth it?”

_What_

“What?”

“There _must_ be a reason why Amanda doesn’t want you going back to him! I understand that you’ve formed some kind of bond with Gavin, but perhaps you’re making a mistake,” Connor blurts. Nines hopes his brother’s tongue is just loose from the wine, because his face is looking awfully punchable all of a sudden.

“You’re being ridiculous!” Nines scoffs. His _brother_ out of all people is accusing him of making the wrong choice. Connor doesn’t know Gavin. He doesn’t know what he’s like or what he’s done to Nines’ life. He has no idea how Gavin truly makes him feel.

Perhaps he doesn’t really know who Nines is, either.

Nines starts to turn his heel to walk away—Connor is insufferable when he’s like this—but a hand grips his elbow like a vice.

“Please don’t go, Rich. It’s not worth your life,” Connor begs.

“I will not die,” Nines seethes, ripping his arm away. _I do not break promises,_ he refuses to say. “If you do not wish to go, then don’t. The four of us will be sufficient enough.”

(Somehow, in the back of his mind, he doubts it.)

Nines walks away, leaving his brother alone in the kitchen. However, halfway up the stairs, Connor yells, “You would die for a beast?!”

He stops climbing, grips the railing with a controlled anger.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Nines tells him coldly. “You’ve been living your whole life under Amanda’s rules, like some kind of caged animal.” He turns around. Connor is at the foot of the staircase, glaring up at him. Nines glares right back.

“I would not give up my life for a man I’ve known for a few _months,_ ” Connor growls. “I have at least a decent amount of common sense, regardless of what Amanda’s taught me. And I am grateful for her guidance, despite her methods.”

“Amanda has only ever had herself in mind! She never cared for either of us.”

_We are only her puppets._

“If that was the case, she wouldn’t have spared a single glance at us when we were still living on the streets! Amanda raised us!”

_She adored you, but despised me._

“You only say that because you’re afraid to leave her side!” Nines snarls. “You’ve always been the favorite.”

“Is _that_ what this is about? You would let your jealousy control you?” Connor says in disbelief, eyes wide.

“No!”

“I can’t believe you’d do anything to get under Amanda’s skin—”

“Amanda sold me off!” Nines screams, stomping down the stairs. He looks his brother in the face, his near mirror-image. “She traded my freedom on a _whim._ ”

At this, Connor’s face softens. His entire body seems to deflate.

“What?”

“I told you,” Nines mutters, his voice lowering. “She doesn’t care for us.” With that said, he starts back up the stairs, suddenly exhausted. He doesn’t remember the last time he and Connor argued like this; it must’ve been years ago. But their arguments always ended the same, with both of them screaming their lungs out and waking up the next morning pretending like nothing had happened at all. And all would be fine again.

This time, however, Nines thinks it won’t be quite the same.

Exhausted as he feels, he finds it difficult to fall asleep. Nines is left to stare at the open ceiling, his thoughts spiraling, his mind a mess. He really is at a loss for what to do.

For much of his life, he spent his days following Amanda’s every beg and call, made sure he performed just as well as his brother. His brother, who was always the golden child, who he could never beat no matter how hard he tried.

Nines saw the way she cradled Connor’s cheek when they were still boys, praising him for his outstanding performances at school. Connor was perfect, ever the gifted and responsible one. He never acted out of place, and always listened to Amanda, hung onto every word.

Nines, however, was different.

He had learned from quite a young age that it wasn’t _fair._ He knew Amanda viewed him as a pest rather than a son. The florist is sure that if she could choose, the woman would take Connor and leave him behind.

(He knew, and yet he still tried. Tried to be better, to be smarter. But it never did work.)

Nines’ personality was quick to turn frosty. He secluded himself from others, never really bothered to make friends. He had covered himself in a thick layer of ice from head to toe, making it impossible for anyone to come too close. As much as Nines loves him, Connor was never an exception.

But then he met Gavin, and it was as if he felt the sun for the very first time. How ironic for ice to melt in a world so filled with snow.

Nines shuts his eyes.

_“—but it’s completely up to you how this chapter of your life ends. Either continue it, or leave it be.”_

It truly is a privilege to love another.

He chooses to continue it.

 

* * *

 

Elijah is shoved back, digging up snow. Blood trickles down the side of his face, mixing with sweat. Chloe grunts as she too falls back, almost hitting the snowy ground, but Elijah catches her. Above them, the moon wanes in the dark sky.

“Do not get in my way,” Amanda warns, her eyes glowing a bright pink. Her magic sparks at her fingertips. The ground is singed from where she aimed her attack.

“You’ve overstepped your boundaries, Amanda,” Elijah says cooly, helping Chloe stand on her feet. “This part of the woods is off-limits.”

“I believe you forget who you’re talking to.”

“I know a witch when I see one.”

Amanda’s face darkens. “Watch yourself, boy,” she says, scowling something fierce. “I gave you your powers, and I can take them away.”

“But you won’t,” Chloe says, her eyes undisturbed despite her wounds. “You’re too afraid to lose another.”

“Which is why it is so important to get rid of any and all obstacles.”

“Gavin is _not_ an obstacle,” Elijah snarls, his own magic pulsing an electric blue. “It would do you well to watch yourself, witch.”

At his jab, Amanda barks out an ugly laugh, throwing her head back in the process.

“That idiot has done nothing but serve as an inconvenience between me and what truly matters,” Amanda tells them, folding her hands in front of her, ever so formal. “Once he is out of the way, everything will fall into place.”

Elijah’s magic seeps out of him, his eyes glowing a fierce blue as he lets his anger get the best of him. Chloe puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, her expression telling him everything without saying anything at all.

The dead trees shiver at the sudden disturbance, and nature becomes uneasy. Elijah tucks his magic away for now; it isn’t smart to upset nature.

Luckily, it favors him.

“I am not so useless that I would let you kill him,” Elijah says, his voice even. He knows the games Amanda plays, and he knows how to win them. He plays them too, after all.

“I would never kill a man,” Amanda smiles, her expression obnoxiously calm, “But that doesn’t mean another can’t do it in my stead.”

“Funny, you laugh at the idea of being called a witch, and yet you’ve just proved that you _are_ one. Only witches make twisted deals.”

“Oh, Elijah,” Amanda coos, stepping forward. He and Chloe take a step back, wary. “At least I am not so cruel as to put a curse on my own people.”

Elijah breathes in sharply. She’s always been good and striking exactly where it hurts.

“I did it to protect them,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re a hazard, after all.”

“You haven’t protected them from anything. The only thing you’ve accomplished is gaining their hatred. Gavin would kill you if he were to ever see your face again.”

“This is a waste of our time, Eli,” Chloe says, staring uninterestedly at Amanda. “Although I must say she is good at what she does.”

Amanda smiles her wicked smile.

“Heed my warning one last time, Amanda. Do not come back to these woods,” Elijah tells her, his voice as cold as ice. “If you do, then you will be met with violence.”

“You remind me so much of one of my sons,” Amanda sighs. “Always so full of himself, so full of baseless pride.”

“I don’t care.”

“You _will_ care when I use him to take care of Gavin.”

Elijah freezes. He feels Chloe tense next to him.

“What?”

“Richard has made quite the extraordinary bond with your brother. So much so that he’s willing to die for him,” Amanda explains, fixing her shawl. Her magic flares up again, and Elijah’s does too, in case she tries something.

You can never let your guard down around her, he’s learned.

“I am willing to lose a son in order to save another. Clay is clay,” the witch says simply, and like the wind, she is gone.

“We need to act quickly,” Elijah concludes, his magic seeping back into his skin. There is not much time left at all.

“But the spell isn’t complete,” Chloe points out. Elijah eyes a patch of dried blood on her cheek, smears some snow on it to wipe it away. He heals the wound until there’s only a minor scar left, even though it’s slight.

“Gavin is worsening faster than I initially thought,” Elijah muses out loud. “That witch finds a way to foil anything.”

“What will we do, then?”

He takes Chloe’s hand in his.

“Magic pays a price,” he says simply, running a thumb over her knuckles.

Her perfectly carved knuckles, made from clay.

“Eli—”

“My brother is not a bad person. I’d say he’s the better one out of the two of us.”

“You are not a bad person, either,” Chloe tells him, squeezing his hand. It’s a familiar comfort, her weight on his.

Elijah slips his hand free, saying nothing.

“I am just as bad as the woman who taught me.”

 

* * *

 

It’s getting harder to quell the beast. Gavin can feel it trying to claw its way out, and every hour that passes, it’s one step closer to succeeding. He suppresses the beast, tells it to _shut the hell up!_ because he can’t think. Gavin can’t think when part of him is trying to break through.

He’s barricaded himself inside his room, huddled into a corner. Everyone else is asleep; Gavin can’t afford to be loud. If he focuses hard enough, he can keep the monster quiet, despite all of its efforts to make him relent. It takes his memories, tries to chase the human away from him. Gavin won’t let it.

He won’t let it.

Gavin doesn’t want to forget, so he scratches the names of his friends into the wall with his nails. He carves Elijah’s name in as well, writing the word _brother_ next to it.

He doesn’t want to forget.

Shakily, because he senses the beast swelling back up again, he scratches out the number nine over and over again, his penmanship sloppy as he loses his grip.

“No, no, no,” Gavin whimpers, pulling his hair. He doesn’t want to forget. He summons every memory of Nines he can recall, from the very first time they met to the very last.

The beast simmers down.

It has become unbearably hot. Sweat spills down his skin like rain, dampening his hair, his clothes. Gavin grips the edge of the desk as he stands on wobbly legs, leans against the wall for support as he heads to the lavatory.

Peeling his sticky clothes off, he dives into the pool, the cold water feeling like heaven on his skin. Gavin floats on his back, tells himself to breathe.

He just needs to breathe.

 

* * *

 

Nines dreams of blood. There is screaming in the background, but it’s drowned out by the sharp ringing in his ears. It feels as though time itself has slowed, everything around him but a hazy blur. His body moves slowly, aching and heavy The pain is searing on his skin, burning like a bonfire. His hand is clutching where the wound must be.

He is bleeding. He can feel it seeping out of his chest.

Nines brings his hand into view, the one keeping the blood from pouring out like a fountain.

He flips his palm.

Blue.

There is a coldness in his chest that makes him look down at the gaping wound. Something blue and unnatural spills out of him, and he sees his skin peel back and away from the hole in his chest, revealing a white chassis beneath.

A red light flares at his temple, blinking once, twice, before it stays a solid crimson. Nines tries to scream, but no sound comes out. He flails his arms, suddenly enclosed by darkness. He sees nothing, he says nothing, he hears nothing.

Nines runs.

He runs without knowing if he’s actually moving or not. There is only darkness, unmoving and definite. He runs until he is out of breath, or until he thinks he is.

Nines sees a figure up ahead. Small, but familiar. How could he forget?

The figure turns, and part of its face is revealed. A younger version of himself stares up at him, half of his face hidden. A ring of light sits on his temple, spinning a bright blue.

“It’s a lie,” the boy says, emotionless. “All she told you were lies.”

Nines wants to scream, but he _can’t_. He wants to run, but his legs stay rooted where they are. What’s happening? Where is he?

Who is he?

Then the boy whirls around slowly as to reveal his full face in the light. Half of him is a stark white; shiny, as if fired and glazed. Like clay. The left eye that is surround by the chassis is unblinking and so artificial it sickens the florist, shakes him to his core. Nines can’t help but stare into it, so round and polished like glass.

The boy frowns, half flesh, half clay. “She’ll throw you away, too.”

And the ground crumbles from beneath him.

Nines falls

 

falls

 

falls.

 

When he awakens, hours later, he does not feel like himself. Like he’s wearing a stranger’s skin. Nines’ heart pounds in his chest, as loud as thunder. He brings a hand to where the “wound” was, feels soft, unblemished human flesh.

He breathes out. He is made of bone and blood.

It was just a dream.

Yes, it had to be a dream.

Nines sits up, cracks his back. He doesn’t want to see Connor right now. He imagines his brother isn’t too happy with him—not to say Nines isn’t absolutely furious himself, but the morning after an argument never feels good.

Perhaps he can make Connor his favorite breakfast as a silent apology. Nines is quite good at those. 

As he ponders about what to do, he swears he sees a flicker of yellow out the corner of his eye.


	12. The Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nines learns a bit about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait again! i promise i’ll have this story finished.

Breakfast is tense. Nines had cooked for the two of them, piled scrambled eggs and thin slices of ham on Connor’s plate, along with two pieces of buttered toast. He even brewed a cup of coffee, dark and bitter. Connor pushes his food around with his fork. Nines sips from his glass, not hungry at all, really. The dream has left him so frightened he’s lost his appetite. He’s swallowed a few forkfuls of his breakfast, sure, but it’d tasted bland. Flavorless. It sits in his stomach unappreciated.

Nines hears something clatter, flicks his gaze up to see that Connor dropped his fork, having fallen off the table. Connor stares, not at him, but past him, at the wall.

“Connor?”

His brother’s eyes are glazed over. It’s as if his mind is somewhere else.

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, Connor blinks, ducks down to pick up his fork, and wipes it off with a napkin. He goes right back to eating, shoveling eggs in his mouth and chewing like it’s a mechanical act.

Nines looks away. He’s too afraid to say anything. The rest of breakfast is eaten in a deafening silence, so stiff and tense.

He tries to help Connor with the dishes, but his brother simply shoos him away with an adroit little smile.

“Why don’t you tend the garden?” Connor suggests, and Nines does so without question. He needs something to do. Anything that’ll soothe the unease. The raging waters.

Nines gets to work. Pulls on gloves, picks up a small shovel. A pair of garden shears. Weeds the area. Sprays it for bugs, then sprays Amanda’s lovely roses with water. Lightly, so the sun doesn’t burn them up.

He digs his hands in the dirt, tears out hindering weeds and dead plants. Perhaps he does so with too much force, too much anger. Nines’ knees ache from how long he spends crouched down. He lets his body feel the dirt. Takes a deep breath, pulls in the clean, crisp morning air and hauls it inside his lungs.

Nines’ shoulders sag. He releases the air, rises from one flowerbed and moves on to the next. Birdsong comes from above, in the trees. It’s a sweet tune. Nines drinks it in, likes the way it makes him forget.

It’s a quiet, lovely morning.

By the end of it, he is covered with dirt. He’s sure some got on his cheek. A bead of sweat rolls down Nines’ temple—he wipes it away with the back of his hand. He hasn’t been following his training regime for a few months now, and he’s embarrassed to say he’s gotten...softer.

Nines huffs, peels off the sweaty, dirt-stained gloves. He is thrumming with energy suddenly. Adrenaline flows like a tap through his veins. He makes a very impulsive decision. The florist steps back inside, rushes upstairs.

The kitchen is empty when he descends in clothing suited for running. Nines looks around the house, but can’t seem to find any sign of Connor. The dishes in the sink are still wet and soapy.

Just in case, he shouts, “Going out on a run!” and leaves.

Nines takes a different path as opposed to his usual. This one is longer, more secluded. It’s good, he thinks. The less people, the better. He needs some time to himself. Just himself and the wind and the pretty spring flowers.

He jogs past bushes of multicolored blossoms, sees smears of pinks, reds, and yellows as he goes. The smell is sickeningly sweet, like Nines had opened a fresh jar of honey. He breathes through his mouth, runs faster.

Nines runs. His feet hit the broken cobblestone-dirt path. He isn’t quite sure where he is. Suppose he’s in a small thicket somewhere, but not one where any beasts dwell. No, Amanda made sure he couldn’t leave.

He couldn’t leave.

Nines tried to go back the first morning he awoke when back in Detroit. The second he would’ve breached the border, a series of red walls stopped him, acted like a blunt boundary between him and the only thing that truly mattered. He had thrown his fists against the imaginary red walls—imaginary, because Connor said he couldn’t see them—rammed his shoulder into the pesky things to no avail.

The red walls stood, and Nines wasn’t sure if they’d ever come down.

So now he’s running. His thighs hurt and his breath is shallow. Sweat coats his skin, shiny and sleek. The world passes him in a series of blurs, the scenery all bleeding together in a mess of blotted colors and shapes.

Nines wipes the sweat from beneath his eye, obscuring his vision. Another drop falls, then another, and soon no amount of hasty wiping can stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks in unhurried, smooth turns. He slows down before stopping completely, kicking up dirt.

He presses his palms to his eyes, tries to catch his breath. The ache in his chest is so severe now it threatens to burst through his heart. Nines takes a moment to ground himself.

_ Breathe. Just breathe. _

His lungs fill, though his heart does not settle. Nines sniffles almost pitifully, looking around. He doesn’t want to go home quite yet. Connor’s behavior at breakfast had certainly thrown him out of the loop. His brother has been acting a bit strange, recently.

As if Connor was growing to be more...obedient. Like he was trying to simmer down and not boil over. Perhaps his twin is taking a very strict approach in becoming less vivid. Less lively.

Strange.

Nines turns around, heading north.

Turns out he ran quite a distance, because it takes him more than a half hour to get to the northern border. The forest that is home to Gavin’s castle is just a few paces away. Nines trots up to the thin line separating him from his beloved, sweaty and exhausted. His eyes are still puffy around the edges.

As soon as he comes so much as a foot within the border, the red walls pop back up. They’re a translucent blood-red, flickery and thin, like wax paper. Nines thinks they look very easy to shatter.

But they aren’t. And he knows it.

Still, he tries.

Nines presses both his palms to the red walls, pushes himself forward. His feet dig into the ground as he applies more pressure. The walls make a faint rumbling sound, but stand strong. He removes his hands, then curls one into a fist and drives it forward, full of frustration and despair.

The wall groans, and Nines’ fist bounces back, knuckles rubbed raw.

“Fuck,” he hisses, bringing his injured hand up to his chest, cradling it. There’s a very abrupt sting in Nines’ eyes, which makes him even angrier. He is so angry, so fucking pissed off at Amanda and her cruel little games, her taunting smiles.

Nines slides his jaw, clenches his teeth together until they squeal in protest. He lets his injured hand fall to his side; the pain there is nothing compared to what he’s feeling in his heart.

His poor, poor heart.

Nines sighs, presses his forehead to one of the red walls. He must look mad, doing this to something others can’t see. Very quickly the florist decides he doesn’t care what they think of him, doesn’t care about Amanda’s reputation in these parts anymore.

Nines closes his eyes, then sighs again. The red wall is surprisingly cool against his skin. He leans against it a bit firmer, arms hanging loosely by his hips. His necklaces dangles, the gemstone sparkling in the early morning sun.

He stares down at it with both adoration and bitterness. Love makes you do very foolish things. His former self would be appalled at what he’d become, at who he is now. (Nines would rather be emotional and in love than cold and distant. And he would choose this path time and time again.)

“I’m so sorry,” Nines whispers. The wind hears it, caresses his face, his hair. “I only ever continue to disappoint you, darling.” The term makes his throat tight, makes his heart ache with a dreadful longing. He wants so badly to touch Gavin again, to hear his lovely voice and see his bright eyes. Nines wishes he could card his fingers through Gavin’s hair, wishes he could feel the burn of the beast’s stubble against his soft skin.

He wishes, wishes, wishes he wasn’t stuck here. The florist would happily give up all the other seasons and accept the biting winter if it meant he could be with Gavin again. Nines pushes himself away from the border, and the red walls fall, though not permanently. He knows they’ll be there for him when he tries to escape next time.

Tonight, Perkins and his men would raid the beast’s castle. They would take his head and all his gold and come back to Detroit boasting about their single blaze of glory. Nines scoffs as he thinks about this on his way home. Even if he himself can’t leave Detroit, it doesn't mean Markus and the others can’t. They’d be fine on their own; Markus is clandestine and subversive. He has an extremely good head on his shoulders.

Nines trusts them, he really does.

(And he’s heard wivestales about the little underground gang Markus may or may not be the leader of. Who knows how many followers the baker has…)

“Richard.”

Connor opens their front door before Nines even has the chance to touch the knob. He has his head peeking out through the slight gap of the door, a painfully neutral look on his face.

“Where were you?” Connor asks.

“I went on a run.”

Connor stares at him hard, as if analyzing him. His soft brown eyes are calculating, boring straight into Nines’ icy blue. Nines looks at him down the bridge of his nose, refuses to acknowledge how his heart is hammering nervously inside his chest. He keeps his face stony, impassive.

Finally, after what seems to be an hour of just damn staring, Connor gives a brief nod, then opens the door fully, walking back inside their home. When he disappears from sight, Nines lets out a breath, curls his fingers so his hands form fists. They do not shake.

Nines steps inside, closes the door behind him.

Something is deeply wrong.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere deep underground, where no human would ever travel to, lies the headquarters of Jericho. Above it is an old, abandoned ship, now a hulk of rust and algae. Markus stands in front of his people, all murmuring to one another, faces slightly obscured due to the faint lighting.

He knows what they are, and he knows what he is.

“Richard Perkins plans on raiding the Kamski-Reed castle tonight, around the unveiling of the full moon. When it comes into view, they’ll take their horses and invade. We will be there to make sure the residents of that castle stay alive,” Markus declares, his voice instantly silencing the crowd. Simon is by his side, ever supporting him.

“What does that have anything to do with us?” someone calls from the sea of people.

More mumbling, more uncertain faces.

“Amanda is the reason. She spurred this entire thing forward, ” Simon supplies.

Shock, then anger settles on every face in the crowd. Markus feels their bitterness. There’s his own lion’s worth of antipathy twisting inside of him, inside of his clay-fired chest. Magic pulses and squirms at his fingertips, a natural response to his mood. Simon steps a little closer to him, pressing their shoulders together.

Markus draws his hands into fists, repressing the sorcery. He sees Simon smile from his peripheral, and a different feeling replaces the loathing surrounding his heart. Something warmer, loving. Sweet and familiar. Markus uncurls his hands, wraps one around Simon’s right. Their fingers lace together, painted skin receding to reveal a shiny white chassis.

Markus knows what they are, and he knows what he is.

“Tonight, the witch will be suppressed. But there will strictly be no intentional killing. We can’t afford to have casualties on either side,” Markus says, which earns an eye roll from North. He gives her a knowing look, and she turns her head away from him, glaring at a wall.

“But what if they try to kill us?” a woman shouts, instantly encouraging her peers to do the same.

“Yeah! Who knows what they’ll do to us!”

“Goddamn  _ humans. _ ”

The usually serene sea of people quickly turns into a tempest, all yelling and cursing over one another, pushing and shoving so as to let their voices be heard. And Markus hears them. He hears every single one of them.

_ “If you’re gonna do this, be peaceful about it. There’s no point in fighting violence with more violence.”  _ He recalls Josh’s words of wisdom from just a few days ago. The man was the polar opposite of North, always gentle and never rough. Nonviolent, calm. Josh is a stream while North is a storm, ideals constantly clashing against each other, constantly trying to win the other over.

Markus raises a palm to his people, effectively hushing them. His bicolored eyes jump from face to face, all so uniquely carved and painted.

“An eye for an eye and the world goes blind,” the leader of Jericho says firmly, voice full of confidence. His posture is as strong as ever, shoulders broad and thick and body built like a bull. Tough, yet gentle.

Josh may be a stream and North may be a storm, but Markus is the rain, unforgiving at times, and others not.

“We’ll only bind and suppress. I won’t condone any killing. Anyone who thinks otherwise is not a true member of Jericho, and they can leave right now.”

Markus watches North scoff, crossing her arms and giving him a dirty glare. This is something they’ve been working on. Dealing with North’s anger and impulse to destroy has been tough, but there’s been some major improvement. Compared to how she was at the beginning, the old North would sneer at her current self.

The way she was living before, she had no choice but to be belligerent.

Their eyes meet, and North’s face softens just a smidge, almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Markus smiles at her. He’s proud of how far she’s come.

Simon unclasps their hands and clamps one down on Markus’ shoulder. He gives it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll follow you anywhere, Markus. You’ve proved to us enough that you’re worthy of being our leader,” Simon says, which ultimately pulls cheers of encouragement from their people.

Josh is a stream, North, a storm, and Markus, the rain, but Simon would be the sky, vast and endless—would follow you anywhere, never leaving your sight. Fickle, constantly changing colors, emotions. But the same person nonetheless. The same core.

Simon holds all of them together. The keystone.

Markus sets a hand on top of Simon’s. He caresses his knuckles, mouths a silent  _ Thank you _ to his fiancé, hoping his love and adoration seeps through his skin—hoping Simon can feel it.

Because Markus certainly can.

“Tonight, when the moon shows its face, we head to the castle.”

The leader of Jericho looks out at his people. Broken and battered, yet still standing. How resilient they are for never cracking.

He would not fail them.

Markus’ magic thrums through his sculpted veins, nervous, excited, and hopeful all at once.

 

* * *

 

In the thick of a never ending winter, a cursed castle is on the brink of collapsing. The ones who serve it are more stone than flesh. No wax candles or kerosene lamps to give off light, to give off warmth. There is but the chill of the wintry winds from outside.

Tina sits on one of the couches in the library. She can barely use her legs; they’ve become so heavy and so stiff it’s a challenge to lift them. A fortress of pillows and chairs stands in one of the more open spaces of the library, in front of a window whose curtains were drawn tight. There is but a trickle of natural  light coming through.

Tina would open them if she had the energy. Now, she only sits and waits and remembers. It’s the only thing she  _ can _ do anymore. She would sigh if she could, but most of her lungs are stone anyway. Not alive. Not human.

Tina doesn’t know how she’s still alive. How any of them are still alive. None of it makes any sense—Elijah’s a real dickhead for this. For having such complicated magic that makes Tina’s head spin. But most of all, she despises him for what he did to Gavin, and for what he’s going to do to him.

Gavin is slowly losing his mind. Tina can hear him scratching into the walls, muttering, crying, and laughing hysterically. She can hear growling coming from his bedchambers at night, heavy footsteps that don’t quite belong to a human.

She’s terrified for him, and what he’s becoming. And  _ fuck _ , if she doesn’t hate herself for not being able to do anything. If Tina wasn’t a stuck as a piece of shitty rock, she’d be by Gavin’s side in an instant.

She’s never been so ashamed of herself.

Although part of her knows it isn’t her fault, Tina doesn’t know who else to point the blame at aside from Elijah. Cunning, wicked Elijah, who was too damn smart for his own good. It pisses her off, thinking about him.

He was different, way back when. Elijah was charming, in an elder brotherly way. Protective. Kind. But then he got ahold of magic and shit was never the same. Tina saw all of it unfold.  A crater had opened up between Elijah and Gavin, separating the normal brother from the one with magic. With talent. With potential.

Tina hates him. She absolutely hates Elijah.

But she knows that Gavin doesn’t, despite all the bad shit he says about Elijah. There’s a part of him that’ll never hate his older brother, because Elijah was  _ good _ once. He was so good.

Tina’s heart breaks at the fact.

(She doesn’t want to admit she misses him.)

A tear falls from her good eye, the one that isn’t consumed by stone. Tina lifts a heavy hand to wipe it away, then immediately lets it fall. It thuds quite harshly against the couch. She doesn’t feel it.

A wail comes from Gavin’s bedchambers, all the way on the other side of the hall. It’s so broken and desperate Tina almost sheds another tear, but she finds she doesn’t have anymore to spare.

Perhaps that is more heartbreaking than anything.

The castle walls shake as Gavin’s squeals become bellows, as he shifts from man to beast. Again. Tina will be losing her best friend  _ again. _ She can’t imagine how scared Alice might be. Poor girl, to be cursed and subjected to such cruelty at a young age. 

But Tina knows she’s brave. Kara and Luther wouldn’t have it any other way. Alice has tough skin and a big heart. She’s a good kid. Almost too good. But there’s another member of that little found family that Tina’s more concerned about.

Ralph—the sweet kid—is probably almost as hysterical as Gavin at this point. He’s been through so much (Tina doesn’t even know his full story), she can tell. Not just by his scarred face and unusual, skittish behavior. No, Tina can tell by the way he flinches at his own shadow, how uncomfortable he becomes if someone raises their voice.

She sees his trauma in the way his usually bright eyes cloud over sometimes, as if recalling a dark memory from the past.

Tina’s heart hurts for Chris as well, who had a wife and kid before the curse. They left a day before Elijah could cast a spell on them, and Chris tells her it’s better that way. Better for them to be anywhere but here.

She isn’t as close to him as she is to Gavin, but they were known to be a troublesome group all those years ago, when Tina and Chris were still in training. When Gavin was still a prince.

Her heart aches, and she doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop hurting.

For now, though, Tina patiently waits. Maybe the aching will stop once her heart becomes stone.

* * *

 

Work is as usual. Kind of. Hardly.

Connor has...grounded him, per se. Nines isn’t allowed to leave the shop—for whatever obscure reason, he doesn’t know. Connor is still acting strange and Nines has yet to bring it up. When he had taken the basket used for delivery, Connor snatched it from his grasp and told him to stay put. He’d make the deliveries instead.

That’s why Connor isn’t here now.

Nines tends to the shop alone. Amanda was never kind enough to allow anyone else to work here. She perfectly crafted her sons to run the business properly and she would use them as such. Nines nearly grinds his teeth to dust, would punch something if he could.

Instead he works his way around weaving delicate stems and threading wildflowers together. Nines recalls the time he and Gavin did something very similar in the royal garden, though Gavin’s crown for him was subpar.

He thinks it’s the best crowns he’s ever worn.

Now, it’s most likely all shriveled and dried up in a corner somewhere, collecting dust and attracting bugs. Nines sighs, and in his absent mindlessness, pricks his thumbs against a thorn.

A small bead of blood rises from the wound. Nines laughs out loud, scaring a customer. He doesn’t care, goes to the washroom to clean it. Running his thumb under the tap, he moves to press a cloth to the wound.

Nines sees a drop of bright blue staining the porcelain sink. Before he can think too much about it, he turns the tap back on, and the blue disappears. Some of the mysterious gunk’s gotten on him, too. He wipes it away with the cloth, but finds it seeping out of the wound, little by little.

His heart seizes in his chest, bile works its way up his throat.

Nines blinks, and azure blue becomes crimson red. Swallowing dryly, Nines holds the cloth to his thumb. “Lovely,” he mumbles. “I’m starting to see things.”

The florist wraps the wound in thin layers of bandage, tapes it shut. He goes back to man the front desk, plasters on a tight smile and helps customers pick out arrangements. Connor gets back after another hour or so, acting warm and cheery as if he hadn’t been acting weird all day.

When asked what happened to his thumb, Nines shrugs, says he was distracted. His brother lets out a laugh, pats him on the shoulder.

“You should be more careful next time, Rich,” Connor tells him, carrying bags of fertilizer from the back room.

“Of course.”

The hours go by, and they close up shop. On their way home, Connor asks, “Would you like to do something tonight?”

Nines gives him a sidelong glance. “What do you mean?” He pulls at his turtleneck, suddenly cold.

“We haven’t done anything together for some time. Why don’t we stargaze? You like that.”

“I was hoping to catch up on some reading tonight.”

Connor frowns. “Bring the book with you, then. I’ll bring a lamp,” he insists.

Nines presses his lips in a line. “I would prefer to read at home and not on the muddy ground.”

“We can take a blanket with us. Why are you being so stubborn, Rich?”

Nines turns his heel to face him, and they stop walking. Some onlookers give them stares, but he doesn’t care. “No, why are  _ you _ being so stubborn? This isn’t like you at all, Connor. You’ve been acting strange all day!”

Connor’s brows twist, his features tense. “Is it such a bad thing to want to spend time with your brother?”

Above them, the sky turns into one giant smear of pink and yellow. The sun shifts, starts to lower itself to make way for the moon.

Time is ticking.

Nines pinches the bridge of his nose, irritated. “Is this about tonight? Please enlighten me, Brother.”

A chasm rips itself open between the two brothers, the silence so loud it’s deafening. Makes Nines’ fingers twitch, his heartbeat erratic.

“Amanda doesn’t want you leaving Detroit,” Connor says impassively. He grabs Nines’ shoulder in a grip so tight it’s sure to leave bruises. “I’ve been assigned this mission, Brother. And I will complete it whether you like it or not.”

“What the  _ hell _ are you doing?!” Nines hisses, having no choice but to follow along as Connor drags him forward, his hand like a bear trap on his shoulder. He doesn’t want to make a scene, so he keeps his voice low. “What did Amanda tell you? Is she threatening you?”

“I am doing this because I always complete my missions,” Connor says, emotionless. Hard. Dull. Like he was talking to a stranger instead of his own brother. “And because I care about you.” The last part is said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself rather than Nines.

“You aren’t a slave to her,” Nines tells him. The house comes into view. Roses never smelled so appalling. His thumb throbs.

Connor says nothing, keeps his grip on him tight even as he goes to unlock the door. With a swift turn of the key, he pushes Nines in. The door squeaks to a close behind them.

It is quiet in the Stern household.

The brothers stare at one another, a whole conversation spoken without words. Outside, metal armor clanks and horses whinny. Men shout. It’s just about time.

“Connor—”

“You have not been granted permission to leave the household, Richard. You will stay put so long as I am here,” Connor declares, bringing his hands behind his back. He stands in front of the door, spine straight and strong like a tree trunk. Unbending.

Nines glares at his brother. “You're a fool, Connor. Nothing but Amanda’s obedient lap dog,” he growls, stalking towards Connor, looking down at him with the most intimidating glare he can muster.

“Better a tamed dog than a feral cur who doesn’t know his own place.”

Nines mouth hangs open around an empty gasp. Connor never talked to him like that, in all their years of living together. Never. Betrayal pulls at his heartstrings. Connor’s blows are sharp, intending to hurt. Nines knows not to let them affect him, but…

“For your sake, I hope you wake up from whatever it is that’s keeping you asleep,” Nines says quietly, looking down at the floor. It’s hard to look at Connor when he’s like this. Nines turns his heel, trudges upstairs.

He sits on his bed, recalls a conversation he had earlier in the shop with Markus when Connor was out on deliveries.

_ “It’s likely that Connor will try to stop me from leaving. Which is pointless anyway, considering the spell Amanda’s casted on me,” Nines explained to him, drummed his fingers against his crossed arms. _

_ Markus considered this for a moment, then said, “We can still advance regardless if you’re with us or not. The castle shouldn’t be hard to find if it’s stuck in the thick of winter.” _

_ Nines frowed. “I must apologize, Markus. You’re doing this for me, and yet…” _

_ Markus shook his head. “No, no. Don’t apologize. You could say we’re actually willing to do this. Trust me, Nines.” _

_ Before Nines could reply, Markus slapped him on the shoulder, gave him a friendly smile that made his eyes crinkle. _

_ “You’re stronger than a few red walls. If you’re gonna hit them, hit them ‘til they break.” _

How Markus even knew about the red walls, Nines doesn’t know. He’s a rather...mysterious man, so full of secrets. The florist supposes that's not such a bad thing.

He hears no moment from downstairs. Connor must still be there, guarding the door. Nines glances at a window. His logic is telling him not to do it, that any efforts to leave will end poorly and in vain. Nines eyes the window a bit longer, thinking, thinking, thinking.

The florist pushes himself off the bed, opens the window as quietly as he can. The cool night air hits Nines’ face, and he lets out a breath. He’s going to do this—he has to at least  _ try _ . Nines slips a leg out the window, then the other. He braces himself on the roof, slithers out his upper body. Nines crouches low, inches along the roof of his house.

He missteps, foot catching against one of the looser shingles. He curses as he watches it tumble off the roof, hitting the ground with a low thud. Nines swallows, and takes a leap of faith. The front door opens just as he starts to make a run for it.

“Richard!” Connor shouts, but his voice fades as Nines runs like he’s never ran before. To the northern border. Get to the northern border. The sky is a dark purple-blue, flecked with white and veiled by clouds. Moonlight guides him, illuminating his path. Nines runs down the old cobblestone path, kicking up dirt and nearly knocking people over.

Connor is hot on his heels, but Nines has always been faster. More agile.

He spots a large sea of people crowding around a bard, listening to his tunes. Perfect. Nines heads straight for the mass, weaving his way around person after person. He looks over his shoulder, sees Connor struggling to shove his way through the crowd.

“Richard!” He’s absolutely enraged.

Good.

Nines chuckles to himself as he makes it through the audience, no longer can he hear Connor’s voice. He sprints faster; he’s almost at the northern border. The florist can do it. He can break them, those annoying walls. He can do it.

(He  _ has _ to do it.)

With the border up ahead, Nines feels an odd fluttering sensation in his chest. Giddiness, perhaps, since he was able to outrun his brother. The red walls appear, looming over him. They flicker and dance like flames.

Nines presses his palms to them like he has so many times before, pushing pushing pushing. His shoes slide back, leaving tracks in the dirt. The walls flicker again, but don’t fade. Nines hears rapid footsteps approaching him from behind, distant but getting closer by the second.

“You can’t leave, Rich,” Connor yells.

“Fuck off,” Nines snarls, his heart going a mile a minute. He draws an arm back and drives his fist forward.  _ Please, _ he thinks as he lands another blow, then another.  _ Let me go to him. _ The red walls start to chip, pieces flying off and fading into nothing. Yes—yes! He’s doing it, he’s going to break through—

A rough hand grabs him by the shoulder, throws him to the ground. Nines grunts as he falls, but kicks the back of Connor’s knees so he hits the dirt as well. Nines scrambles to pick himself up, tries to send another blow at the walls.

Connor pulls him back, wraps his arms around his head and neck in a chokehold. Nines instinctively darts a hand up to grip his brother’s wrists, trying to get him to loosen his grip.

“You can’t go,” Connor says, voice thick with emotion. “She’ll—she’ll terminate us!”

“I  _ have _ to go to him, Con! They’re gonna kill him!” Nines growls, sending his elbow into Connor’s ribs in a harsh jab, which pulls a grunt from his older brother.

Connor tightens his hold, starts to put pressure on Nines’ windpipe. “He’s not worth both of our lives! You’re only thinking of yourself.”

Nines gasps, tries to keep his chin as low as possible. They struggle on their feet for a bit, staggering left and right, trying to win the other over. Nines gets fed up, does the only thing he can think of.

He sends a fist into Connor’s groin. Hard.

Connor’s legs buckle as he lets out a pained groan, his grip loosening ever so slightly. Nines takes advantage of it, rips Connor’s arm away from his neck, delivers a second blow to his brother’s ribs with his elbow. Nines twists Connor’s arm, presses it into his back. He hooks his other arm around Connor’s neck, keeps him immobile.

“Rich!” Connor gasps, struggling to get loose, nails clawing into Nines’ shoulder.

“Let me go,” Nines demands, sick and tired of fighting. “There is nothing you can do that’ll stop me, Con.”

“We’re both going to die because of you!” his brother hisses. “Because you couldn’t do as you were told!”

“I refuse to be her slave!” Nines yells, tightening his hold on Connor. He shakes him a little, he’s so mad. “I am  _ done _ with her controlling every little aspect of our lives! I just want to be free!”

“Rich—”

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up!”

Connor stops squirming. His free arm dangles by his side. Nines keeps his guard up, doesn’t slacken his grapple at all.

“Okay,” Connor says, his voice strained. “I—I won’t stop you.”

Nines gingerly eases his arms away, allowing his brother to breathe right. Connor’s hand goes up to caress his sore throat, coughing a little. Nines dusts the dirt off his pants, sniffles. The air is cold tonight.

The war between brothers is often very bitter.

“Do you—do you truly love him so much, Rich?” Connor asks, staring at him. “Is he worth this much?”

“Yes,” Nines says simply. “And I would do all of this a second time, if I had to.”

Connor swallows, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Love certainly does make you do foolish things,” he mumbles, staring at the ruined ground. They’d dig up the dirt, made it uneven.

Nines smiles just a little. “Quite true.”

“Nines,” Connor says suddenly. He hasn’t called him by that name in months. “If— _ when _ you come back, I...I need to tell you a few things. Important things.”

Nines brows knit together. “Can you not tell me right now?”

“No,” Connor shakes his head. “It’s—it might…” He bites just lip, looks straight into Nines’ eyes. “Just make sure you come back.”

Nines’ softens his gaze. “Of course,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t let Perkins or anyone else kill me.”

Connor lets out a dry laugh, “As overconfident as always, Nines.” His brother gives him a sad, little grin. “Be careful.”

“Markus and his people will be there too,” Nines reminds, though he doesn’t think it does much to comfort him. He sighs. “I’ll be alright.”

Connor nods, looks past Nines’ head, into the forest behind him. “I think I’ve wasted enough of your time,” he whispers. “Go on. Go to him.”

Nines around, facing the everlasting red walls.

_ If you’re gonna hit them, hit them ‘til they break. _

Nines takes a few steps back, then charges straight for the walls, rams his shoulder into them. As if time itself slows, the red walls shatter into a million pieces, shards of it flying everywhere and making broken-glass sounds. The pieces rain onto the ground and land at his feet, flickering once, twice, until they evaporate into nothing.

Nines jerks forward from the lack of proper leverage, but straightens himself out. He sucks in a breath and sprints into the woods, hoping he isn’t too late. Not once does he look behind him. The deeper he ventures, the colder it gets. Spring shifts to winter. Nines crosses the thin line separating the two seasons, curses at himself for not taking a cloak with him.

The snow comes down in considerably harsher flurries. His vision becomes obscured as he holds his arms in front of his face, trying to push forward in all the snow and ice and wind. Nines goes numb in a matter of seconds. He blinks back tears, teeth chattering.

_ Shit, shit, shit _ .

His limbs become weights, dragging him down. No, no—he was  _ so  _ close! He was almost there! Almost there. Nines’ knees hit the ground, sinks into the thick snow. His bones rattle at how hard he’s shaking. The florist brings his arms around himself, trying to preserve as much heat as possible.

“No,” he gasps, “I-I can’t—not-t h-here.” Nines is falling face forward before he can stop himself. The unforgiving wind howls and blows, shakes the earth. He tastes snow on his tongue. The trees shiver. The ground crunches.

Boots crunching in the snow.

He blearily stares at where they’ve stopped, right in front of him. Black, leather boots.

“My, my, what do we have here?” The person crouches down, but at this angle Nines can’t see their face. He spots a cloak attached to their figure and wants to take it for himself. A gloved hand touches his cheek, the other carding through his hair. Nines can feel their warmth, whoever they are, even under the thick of their gloves.

“Elijah,” a woman speaks, and Nines can hear a second pair of boots drawing near him.

“I know, I know,” Elijah murmurs. “I’m admiring my creation.”

Elijah. That name is startlingly familiar. Nines’ heart leaps to his throat, he wants to get up and create as big of a space as he can between him and these strangers. Not safe. They can’t be safe.

But he finds that he’s too cold to move a muscle. Fuck. He might cry. Nines squeezes his eyes shut, hopes Elijah curses or kills him quickly so this can all just be over with. And to think he was foolish enough to imagine he could see Gavin again, even if it was only one last time.

“Don’t,” Nines manages to stutter, half his words covered with snow. “P-plea-se.” 

“Oh, he speaks!” Elijah exclaims. “Perfect. Let’s get him up…”

Nines can’t hear the rest of what he has to say, because the world goes dark.

  
  
  
  
  


But not for very long, it seems. He is awoken by a feather light touch on his arm. Nines stirs, feeling tired and groggy. When his eyes flutter open, a blonde woman looks to be examining his arm, or what he thinks is his arm.

No, it can’t possibly be his—it’s  _ white. _ A stark, shiny white. Like glazed clay. Parts of his skin recede wherever the woman touches, then goes right back to cover up when she moves on to a new area. Bile rises in Nines’ throat. His head hurts, is pounding, actually. The edges of his vision blurs.

“You’re awake,” the woman says nonchalantly, carefully setting Nines’ arm back down. He’s lying against something soft—a cot, perhaps? Nonetheless, the first thing he does is turn to his side and throw up.

Nines heaves, coughing up what little he ate earlier. He feels exhausted all of a sudden, like all his energy had been taken away from him. Small, lithe hands take him by the shoulders, pushes him back down in a lying position. The woman props his head up on a makeshift pillow made of folded cloth and furs.

“It would be best if you’d stay still,” she tells him, dabbing his mouth with a cloth. Nines’ face colors red. It’s embarrassing to be coddled by a stranger. The woman unclasps a canteen from her belt, unscrews it and holds it up to his mouth. Nines doesn’t think twice about it, drinks from the canteen greedily. Some of the water dribbles from his mouth.

“Who,” Nines rasps, then clears his throat. “Who are you?”

“My name is Chloe,” she answers. Chloe doesn’t make any move to elaborate. Nines tries to sit up, but she holds him down. “Rest. You aren’t built like the rest of us.”

_ Like the rest of us? _

“Yes, you were crafted a bit differently.”

Oh, he’s said that out loud.

Chloe doesn’t smile, doesn’t give him a reassuring pat on the arm. Just...stares and feeds him water. Somehow, that’s more comforting than anything else. Nines looks around; they seem to be in a small tent. A kerosene lamp and a few candles are lit. To keep him warm, probably.

“Elijah will return shortly,” Chloe informs. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

“But you—you know the answer to some of them, I presume?”

Chloe doesn’t answer immediately, which gives Nines some time to examine her face. Big, blue eyes and a pretty nose. Soft cheeks, plump lips, a smooth, pale complexion. She is really very beautiful. Doll-like.

“Elijah knows more than I do,” Chloe says.

“He...he said something earlier about me being his creation,” Nines recalls, clutching his head when a familiar, sharp tug tries to intrude his thoughts. He can feel her hands on him, trying to coax Nines into relenting. Amanda’s touch is so far away, yet so close. like she can’t quite get to him.

“Yes, that part’s certainly true.”

Nines looks up. A figure ducks underneath the flap of the tent, their hood covering their face. When they pull it back, electric blue eyes meet his own. Elijah has the darkest hair Nines has ever seen; even darker than Tina’s. It’s shaved cleanly at the sides, with the rest tied up in a bun that sits on his head. His features are sharp, calculating. Nines sees parts of Gavin in him.

It really is his brother.

A spike of anger jolts through Nines. This man is the cause of everything—of all their pain, their suffering. It was him and his repulsive magic that sent that entire castle to hell. Nines digs his fingers into the cot, bites his tongue. He can’t do anything. He doesn’t have an ounce of magic.

“Hello there, Richard. Or do you prefer ‘Nines?’” Elijah offers a knowing smile as he comes closer, his hands clasped behind his back. When Nines doesn’t answer, Elijah asks, “How do you feel?”

“He vomited earlier,” Chloe informs, gesturing to the puddle of what mainly consists of stomach acid and bits of food. “I will have it cleaned up.”

“Thank you, Chloe,” Elijah smiles, then moves to sit on a stool at the side of Nines’ cot. As Chloe goes to clean up the mess, Elijah leans back, as if looking at him for the first time. Nines wants to hide, but he’s still too weak to move properly.

“You want something from me,” Elijah states. Gavin wasn’t lying when he said his brother was condescending as fuck. “Care to tell me what it is?”

Nines would beat him unconscious if he had the strength.

“You know what I am,” Nines bites. “Explain.”

“Feisty. No wonder why Gavin likes you so much.”

“You will keep his name out of your mouth.”

Elijah smiles almost approvingly, then gleefully claps his hands together, his face leaning in closer to Nines’. “What do you think you are?” Elijah asks, his face becoming painfully neutral.

Nines swallows around the lump in his throat. “A person. A man. But...I can guess myself that I am not entirely human.”

“You aren’t human at all, really. Just human-like.”

Nines’ heart—did he even have a heart?—thumps wildly in his chest. It’s a wonder the poor thing hasn’t stopped yet.

“Did you make me?” Nines asks gingerly.

“I created your initial design, yes. I sculpted you out of clay and gave you life, but Amanda,” something dark passed across his features for a split second as he spoke her name, “was responsible for your upbringing. Your personality, I suppose—although I would say I took some liberty in ensuring you would be the one who had most of the control over that.”

Nines’ head spins, he can feel another headache coming. Elijah raises his fingers, and Nines wants to punch himself for flinching. How could he not be terrified? This man was practically his god! The mage takes his first two fingers and presses them to Nines’ forehead. Instantly the throbbing is gone, replaced by a distinct coolness he’s never felt before.

“I must say, I think you turned out wonderfully,” Elijah mutters, drawing his hand back.

“Why?” is all Nines can say.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you curse them. Why did you curse  _ him. _ ”

Elijah leans back. “Ah. That old thing.”

“Answer me,” Nines snarls.

Chloe finishes cleaning, goes to stand in one of the corners of the tent, out of the way.

“Would you believe me if I said I did it for their own good?”

“No.”

Elijah barks out a laugh, one so similar to Gavin’s it makes Nines’ heart clench.

“It’s the truth, Nines. I’m not one to lie,” the mage says, though Nines knows not to trust him. As their conversation starts to dwindle, he can’t help but ask a question that’s been on his mind for awhile now.

“Was there—was there a younger version of me? One that was a child, and…”

“Yes,” Elijah says. “And no, I didn’t make that version of you. The first was all Amanda’s doing.”

“How...how did she…” Nines is so tired. He’s so tired.

“She simply took your memories gained in your old body and transferred them to a new one. And then after that, another one. Your current body,” Elijah explains. “She did the same to Connor.”

_ I—I need to tell you a few things. Important things. _

Nines closes his eyes. He is very much exhausted.

“Sleep,” Elijah tells him. “So you can go back to Gavin all happy and healthy.”

He sleeps.


	13. ‘Til Morning Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perkins and his men attack the castle, while Gavin finally snaps.

An explosion in the distance startles him awake. Once Nines gets past his initial grogginess, his bolts up from the small cot, head spinning. The tent is empty, though the damp spots on the ground suggest someone had left just recently.

Nines spots his boots near the tent’s entrance and crosses the short distance on wobbly legs. He slides them on, then grabs a random cape from where it was folded and set atop a box. He supposes he can borrow it just this once. 

Flipping the tarp open, he ventures out into the cold.

Another explosion has his ears ringing, has the hair on the back of his neck rising. Faster. He needs to be faster—Nines sprints in the snow, stumbling and sinking but none of it discourages him. His heart is pounding, thoughts a jumbled mess. The seeping cold makes the tips of Nines’ fingers go numb, so he curls them into a fist and clenches his teeth.

He fears he won’t make it in time.

The blizzard is particularly strong, covering Nines’ tracks as soon as he lays them down. He pulls the hood tighter over his head, reminds himself that he’s a thing made from clay so the cold shouldn’t bother him as much as it does.

(Nines has been in search of warmth for his whole life.)

Everything starts to look the same at some point. The snow-covered trees, the midnight sky, the endless sheets of white. He isn’t even sure if he’s going in the right direction. Nines curses, then stops to listen. At first he hears nothing but his own panting and labored breaths, his own heartbeat in his ears.

A third blast shakes the ground, sounding much louder than the previous ones. It’s closer. Nines sees black smoke rising from the sea of trees in the distance, and books it.

He practically glides over the thick snow, weaving his way past brown, wrinkled tree trunks and upturned roots. Shouts of man and metal clanking draws near. Nines hopes he isn’t too late, wishes Elijah or Chloe would’ve at least _woken_ him up before they left.

The castle comes into view, and for a moment his face nearly breaks into a relieved smile. Then he sees something black instead of white falling from the sky, and his stomach turns inside out. Nines smells the blood before he can see it.

He steps out of the thicket and onto a battleground. Ashen snow and billows of smoke, clattered weapons and men unmoving. Nines swallows, boots crunching in the snow as he creeps by the bodies. Some of their faces are either splattered with blood or eaten away by fire or both. Some of them leak a familiar bright blue liquid from their wounds, mixing with the red to make an awful shade of purple.

Nines looks away, eyes forward. This sight is far more chilling than any winter storm. It is surprisingly quiet here, the battle sounds so far away even though it’s only a few paces ahead of him. There’s a ringing in his ears that he can’t quite shake away, and a chill in his bones that threatens to consume him.

For the first time, Nines hesitates. Freezes up, limbs locking stiffly in place. He doesn’t dare move another step. The castle is _right there._ He’s so close—just a few more steps and he’ll be with Gavin again. He’ll see Gavin again.

Even still, he has yet to take another step. Nines stays right where he is, has his hands clenched into fists so tight the knuckles turn bone-white. He wants to move. He wants to go forward, but he’s too _scared._ Scared of what’s to come. Of what might happen.

Gavin could easily rip his head off if he was angry enough. Nines knows those broken-glass teeth aren’t just for display; he’s pricked his lip against them plenty of times to know just how sharp they are.

A violent shiver racks through him, shaking his bones. The emerald on his chest feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Nines wants to claw at his hair; he’s never been so _frustrated_ at himself. Is he really having second thoughts at a time like this? People have already lost their _lives_ fighting this battle and Nines can’t even reach it. No, he’s too afraid.

He’s always been too afraid.

The florists squeezes his eyes shut as another shiver runs down his body like a waterfall. His heart beats like a war drum inside of himself, echoing in his ears like thunder. Nines finds it difficult to breathe suddenly, gasping for air like he’s been deprived of it. He twists the fabric that covers his sculpted heart, his chest feeling tight and heavy and—he _can’t breathe!_ The world becomes one giant spinning blur, and—

He doesn’t register his knees hitting the ashen snow until it seeps into the cloth of his trousers, giving his skin a chilly kiss. His breaths come out like ghosts in the chilled air, fast and quick but never enough. Nines hunches over, one of his hands still fisted in the material of his cape. The florist presses his forehead to the snow, which does nothing to soothe the fiery mess in his mind, and _gods,_ he’s shaking all over like an abused dog.

Nines doesn’t open his eyes, finds that he couldn’t anyway, even if he wanted to. Still he sees Amanda’s terrible scowl and the sharpness of Elijah’s smirk and Connor’s look of disappointment. He sees blue blood, a white clay chassis and a younger version of himself, his face all cracked up like he was an abandoned doll and nothing that was ever alive.

Was he ever alive? Has Nines ever _lived?_

His thoughts spiral into a never ending chasm, and it’s honestly over-stimulating—and he _still can’t fucking breathe_ _right._ The agonizing pain in Nines’ chest doesn’t ease up, no, it only seems to be getting worse. He thinks he might die on this horrific battlefield with strangers, might die without even having the chance to _fight._ It’s too much, he can’t take it, and the fucking pain in his temple is back and so is the dreadful blinking of the red light and—

“Breathe.”

And suddenly Nines isn’t on his knees in the middle of a war-struck clearing. There is no smoke and not a hint of blood, red or blue. The curse’s icy chill has disappeared, and his chest feels a little lighter. The pain is still there, but it isn’t as strong, isn’t as torturous. No, Nines is sitting on a soft bed in an all-too familiar room, the yellow glow of candlelight to his right.

Next to him is Gavin, warm, calloused hand on the middle of his back. It’s so relieving Nines wants to cry. He thinks he _does_ cry, because this is obviously just a hallucination he’s seeing because his mind isn’t kind enough to give him a break.

He sobs in what used to be their bed, shoulders shaking, hands gripping the imaginary blankets. Nines must be going crazy, because Gavin rubs a hand up and down his trembling spine, muttering softly to him in the dead of night. It is all so painfully familiar and Nines genuinely wants nothing more than to throw himself into this Gavin’s arms despite knowing he isn’t real, that in a few moments he’ll find himself knees deep in that catastrophic killing field and it’ll be hell all over again.

“You have to _breathe,_ Nines,” pretend-Gavin says, but Nines shakes his head, can’t stand to look at him while he bawls his eyes out. He doesn’t think he’s ever cried this hard.

“—sorry, I’m so sorry, Gavin,” Nines manages to gasp, bringing a hand up to cover his trembling lips. He must look like a mess, with snot and tears rolling down his ruddy face.

“You wanted this.”

It shocks Nines so deeply, his eyes fly open, wet and raw.

“No, _fuck_ , that’s not what I—you wouldn’t be here if you were some kinda fearless hero they find in fairytales,” Gavin tells him, pressing their bare shoulders together. “You’re here because you’re brave, because you’re _scared shitless_ but still got enough guts in ya to keep yourself going. Y’know what I’m saying?”

Nines breathes clearly for the first time in forever, it feels like. He wipes a hand over his tear-stained face, lets out a small laugh. He brings himself to look at Gavin, stares into the safest pair of eyes he knows. Nines sniffles almost pitifully as he laces their fingers together.

It feels so real, he laughs again.

“What the fuck are you laughin’ at, babe? I try to be all deep and understanding for _once,_ and this is what I get? You’re a real piece of work—a real pain in my ass,” Gavin babbles, though he squeezes their intertwined hands, doesn’t let go.

“I've missed you more than you can imagine,” Nines says quietly, and he means every word. He’s a little delusional right now, his lips loose. The florist figures he might as well say what he has to say to this pretend-Gavin, because it might be the most he ever gets.

“That’s nice, but you really gotta get up,” pretend-Gavin says, like Nines hadn’t just confessed to what he’s been feeling these past few weeks.

“What?”

“You gotta get your ass up, like, _right now,_ Nines!”

Gavin’s voice echoes before it fades into nothing. Nines blinks, and suddenly he is very aware of the melted snow that’s making his clothes stick to his skin. He’s back on the bloody clearing, where the ground rumbles and shakes. A deep, feral growl comes from the castle, rolling over the world like a clap of thunder so loud Nines’ bones rattle.

And for a brief, heartbreaking moment, the world stops.

He’s on his feet before he can think. It’s very difficult to run in snow, especially when the air is so clogged up with smoke and ash. Nines takes part of his cape and holds it over his mouth and nose, running, running, running until he reaches the castle’s steps.

There are some people littered around the staircase, arrows imbedded deep in their flesh and muscle. Their blood—both red and blue—drips down the steps and stains the snow a terrible murky color. Nines bites his tongue, ignores the way his stomach twists at the sight.

He nearly slips on a sheet of ice as he travels up the many stairs, but catches himself just in time. The castle’s large doors are spread wide open, revealing a show of carnage. He can hear the shouts of people from both sides, of metal sounds and pained gasps. Nines sees bodies come and go so quickly they become blurs before they become ghosts.

The florist _almost_ doesn’t go in. Almost.

Nines rushes inside, crouching behind an upturned table. The castle has become something out of a stage play, only there are no actors or writers here. Someone falls beside him, an arrow having dug itself into the thick muscle of their neck, oozing red. Their eyes are dull and lifeless, forever staring up at the ceiling.

Nines looks away, peers above the table in search of anyone he knows. There are no flashes of marble white. The servants must be elsewhere, if not here. However he can’t quite focus on any one person’s face. The mob shifts too frequently, yelling and punching and slashing. He’s afraid he might become victim to an arrow himself.

Another bellow shakes the old castle’s walls, sounding so painful and broken Nines’ heart breaks in two. He digs his nails into the wood of the upturned table. It would be foolish to charge out there without a plan. One misstep and he could be killed.

Nines analyzes the scene, looking for the safest way out. He spots an open path near the main staircase, though it’s obscured by two fellows trading blows. They look so enamored in their fighting Nines doubts they’ll notice him sneaking by. He breathes in sharply through his nose, then books it.

He is careful with every step he takes, looking this way and that, reflexes on an all-time high. Nines shields himself with ruined pieces of furniture, the arrows digging deep into the material but never quite grazing him. The florist reaches the grand staircase and is fully prepared to bolt up the steps.

A hand catches around his ankle, and he tumbles.

His chin hits the edge of one of the steps, sending his teeth to tear into his tongue. He groans at the pain blossoming both at his chin and mouth, but turns around in time to roll over and dodge an incoming attack. The man’s sword clinks off the staircase, missing Nines by a hair.

Nines scrambles to get up, but the pain makes his brain lag, and his attacker sends another blow his way. Nines’ arm moves before he can come to his senses, hastily grabs a discarded metal tray from the staircase and holds it up to shield himself. Satisfaction blooms in Nines’ chest at the way the man’s dainty sword bounces off the metal tray as if it were a toy.

He uses this opportunity to kick the man’s stomach, which sends him spiraling backwards, arms flailing to catch himself. Nines huffs as the man hits the floor with a loud _thud_ , lips twitching into a faint smirk. He is quick to recollect him, hastily picking himself off the floor and clambering up the stairs.

Nines dashes down the empty hallway until he reaches what used to be his and Gavin’s bedroom. The door has been forcefully kicked down, now a slab of fancy wood on an even fancier floor. Nines looks around the room, every piece of furniture tipped over, paintings knocked down, vases shattered. Claw marks rip through the grandiose wallpaper in a way that looks unhinged, like an animal had done it.

Nines _refuses_ to think of Gavin as an animal.

One of the windows has been left open, curtains billowing in the winter wind. On the wall next to it is something very peculiar. As Nines draws closer, he can make out carvings of people’s names: Tina, Chris, Hank, Elijah, brother, brother, brother. The number nine is written almost feverishly, as it’s the most frequent thing carved into the wall, all in different sizes.

Nines traces the carvings with his fingers, stares at every divot and line until he can’t bear to look anymore. Gavin was hurting. Gavin _is_ hurting, and Nines isn’t sure what he can do to help.

_What could he do?_

 

* * *

 

_Roughly thirty minutes before Nines awoke._

Markus and his people travel through the underground tunnels his magic had dug to reach the castle. It’s more of a hassle, but this way they’ll be undetectable. Less prone to an early attack. No one knows these tunnels exist except them, after all.

The forest’s cursed winter can’t reach them here, either. They don’t need to worry about getting lost or stuck in the snow. The tunnels will guide the way. Markus leads his people, torch in hand, down the hollow. He carries the light to freedom.

The dirt ceiling shakes from above, clods of earth becoming loose and landing on their heads or shoulders. Markus’ people mumble amongst themselves, some carrying torches, others carrying weapons. North has her own aries strapped to her back, bow gripped tightly in her hand. She looks determined. Fearless. The dim lighting makes her features look sharp, like she’s a force to be reckoned with.

Markus certainly thinks so.

Simon is close by his side, a bag of explosive arrows slung over his shoulder, a crossbow strapped to his back. He catches Markus staring and offers him a reassuring smile, one that never fails to calm him down. Markus’ favorite thing about Simon is how his smiles always reach his eyes. It’s so silly how a quick, upturned movement of the lips can send his heart pounding in its bony cage. How it both grounds Markus yet encourages him to fight at the same time.

Simon makes him brave. Makes him bold.

He cannot wait to marry this man.

 _Soon,_ Markus thinks. _After this is over, I will give you the world and more._

As they begin to reach the end of the tunnel, Markus turns around, and his people come to a stop. He looks at them, bicolored eyes flicking to and from every face. He will never forget any of their faces or their names.

(Deep down, he knows he will lose some tonight.)

“This is a battle for freedom. For years we have hidden ourselves underground, living quietly among the bugs and the dirt, because on the surface we are seen as _freaks._ Like we aren’t even _people,_ ” Markus says, confident and tall. His voice does not waver. “Tonight, we have a chance to finally let ourselves be known. To free ourselves from the shackles Amanda has put on us, the shackles that _society_ has put on us.”

Markus raises his torch into the air. “Tonight, we will be free at last!”

“Free at last!”

“Free at last”

_May we be free at last._

When they come to the surface, it is relieving to know Perkins and his men have yet to arrive. The castle stands tall, covered in snow and vine. It’s the same as it’s always been, all those years ago. Markus has only been here a handful of times, when Elijah was still around. His maker claims the best way to live is to appreciate one’s surroundings, so Elijah let Markus wander around the giant castle.

This was where he took his first breath.

This was where he saw Simon for the first time, where Elijah noticed him peeking around in his workshop, told Markus he could befriend Simon when the golem woke up.

The castle is also where Markus lived through his first nightmare. And he’ll never forget it.

(He had to leave some of his people behind, after all.)

First order of business, ensure the inhabitants are all accounted for. Markus makes a brief gesture with his hand, which sends a small group clambering up the stairs. He eases the heavy castle doors open with his magic, slowly as to not startle anyone inside.

The group scurries inside the castle. They were ordered to make sure the servants stay as safe as possible given their predicament. Marble can break easily if one pushes against it hard enough.

Markus forces the doors shut, seals it with magic. It won’t hold forever, he knows, but it’ll buy them some time. He has to save a majority of his magic for dealing with the witch. No matter what, she must fall.

And Markus knows she’ll be here to take back what was hers.

In the distance, metal armor clinks against itself. Markus turns around, sees a mob marching towards them, pitchforks and torches held high in the air. Some men are on horses, swords strapped to their hips. Perkins leads them, his cockiness oozing from where he rides atop his white stallion, its hide blending in with the snowy backdrop.

Markus yells, ushers his people to descend the stairs to meet the enemy halfway. He follows them, unsheathing his own sword. Simon stays at the foot of the staircase, reaching back into his quiver to retrieve the explosive arrows, enhanced with magic.

The two groups crash into each other like waves, battling to see who would come out on top. Human and golem, red and blue. Soon it became impossible to tell whose side anyone was on.

Simon loads his crossbow, brings the lever up, aiming low. He closes one eye, then releases the first explosion.

 

* * *

 

Nines peeks his head out the open window, squinting through all the snow and darkness. There isn’t much to see from this angle, but he can hear distant scuffling on the other side. Almost like someone was on the roof—

Nines surges out of the room without a second thought, sprinting his way to the West Wing. He practically flies up the stairs to the roof, legs aching, but too stocked up on adrenaline to care. He bursts through the small door where he and Gavin would escape to to watch the sunset.

The same door leads him into a nightmare.

Perkins is on his knees, bleeding severely from multiple lacerations suspiciously in the shape of tooth and claw marks. His bow is completely ruined, arrows snapped in half and littered all about him. He looks to be breathing still, though barely. Something big and snarling hides in the shadows to the far left, perched atop a fragile ledge. It takes Nines’ attention away from the broken man.

Glowing green eyes meet his own icy blue.

The florist is stupidly in love enough to smile.

In a flurry of motion so quick, Gavin pounces on him, and he hits the ground hard. Bat-like wings unfurl from Gavin’s monstrous back, splaying out wide like a fan, easily the size of about two men or longer. There is a hook-like talon sprouting from an area on each wing, curling in like a thumb. Something akin to a scorpion’s tail hovers above Gavin’s lion head, rattling menacingly, presumably filled with poison.

A manticore in all its glory.

With the wind knocked out of him, the only thing Nines can do is stare up at Gavin like an idiot, his eyes wide as he feels saliva spill from Gavin’s mouth and drip onto his cheek. He isn’t sure what to do, his mind and emotions all jumbled into one huge mess. Nines wants to weep with joy and fear at the same time. He wants to wrap his arms around Gavin’s beastly head and tell him he’s sorry, that Nines loves him even if Gavin hates him now.

Gavin lowers his enormous maw, digging his claws into Nines’ shoulder and breaking the skin. This close, the florist can see the crazed look in Gavin’s eyes. He isn’t here anymore. Not an ounce of human left in his gaze.

Gavin (the beast?) pulls his lips back, revealing those sharp, sharp teeth, already stained with blood. He gets in close to Nines’ face, seems to like his face scrunched up in fear. A roar erupts from the back of Gavin’s throat, spraying pink saliva everywhere. Nines turns his face away the best he can, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look into Gavin’s bloody mouth. So much closer, the sound sends his hair flying back, vibrating deep in his chest. He feels it even in the tips of his toes.

Nines disregards the spit on his face, turns his head back so he can look straight into Gavin’s deranged eyes.

“Gavin,” Nines says hoarsely, and already can he feel the tears threatening to spill. They obscure his vision, making the whole world wobbly and uneven. There’s so much he wants to tell him, but he isn’t sure if Gavin is in the right state of mind to hear him properly.

He tries anyway.

“Darling, I’m here.” It’s said quietly, softly. So unsuited for the chaos spiraling about them, surrounding them. And it’s right then when Nines decides he can’t hold them in anymore. The tears fall, his adrenaline wearing off. His jaw throbs painfully.

“I’m sorry,” Nines babbles, so unlike himself. He must be going crazy. “I’m so—so _sorry_ , Gavin. I never meant to leave—I never meant to leave you like I did. But—but _please,_ if you’re really—really listening I just want you to—to know—”

Something flies through the air, digging itself into Gavin’s fur and flesh. He hisses from the impact, head snapping to the right. Nines follows his gaze, sees Perkins with a new bow in his hands, though he’s shaking almost violently, as if his body will give at any moment.

Gavin jumps off of Nines and shoots up into the air, leaving the florist on the hard, cold ground with tears cascading down his flushed cheeks. The wind from Gavin’s wings hits him like a cold whip, here one second then gone the next.

Nines blinks. He hears a sickening crack from his right, then something heavy hitting the ground. Perkins’ severed heads rolls along the balcony, dead fish eyes wide and unnerving, staring at nothing. His mouth is open, presumably mid-scream. It seems Perkins wasn’t fast enough.

Nines shoots up into a sitting position, his stomach twisting so painfully he thinks he might throw up again. He swallows the bile down, hunched over his legs as he gasps in shock. Small drops of blue blood leak from the wound Gavin gave him. They sting, albeit mildly. Nines is sure he’ll live.

That is, if Gavin lets him.

The florist wraps his borrowed cape around himself, shivering violently. From the cold or the ghastly sight in front of him, he doesn’t know. He decides he doesn’t really care. Gavin is nowhere to be seen, having flown off into the night.

Somewhere down below, another explosion is set off, swinging the entire castle so fiercely Nines would think it was an earthquake if he didn’t know any better. Before he can recollect himself, a hand grabs his shoulder, startling him so badly he screams.

“—ines! Nines, it’s me! It’s Markus.” The baker is crouched beside him, hand squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. The florist stares into dual-colored eyes, mouth parted dumbly.

“Let’s get you up,” Markus says, grabbing Nines by the elbows and hoisting the both of them to a stand. Markus slowly walks him over to the door, hand on his back, stepping over Perkins’ headless body and severed skull. Nines makes sure not to look down at it, thinks he might _actually_ vomit if he sees it again.

As they near the door, Markus turns his head. In the torchlight, all is revealed. Blue blood flows from a nasty gash on his temple, spilling into his eye. The skin around the gash is pulled back to unveil the familiar clay chassis underneath.

Oh.

“You—” Nines sputters dumbly, his mind a mess. “You’re a—”

“I am,” Markus says calmly, leading them through the door. “And so are you.”

“How long.”

“I’ve always known.”

“And you didn’t think to _tell_ me?”

Markus licks his lips, the action so human-like. So far from what they really are.

“I promised your brother not to.”

Nines laughs, sounding hysterical even to his own ears. He’s tired. He’s so _tired_ of all of this and the night is hardly over.

“It seems no one is ever willing to tell me anything unless I find out for myself.”

Markus says nothing, even when Nines shoves his hand off his back. He spins around, narrowing his eyes at the baker.

“Who are you really? It’s hard to imagine you’re just a baker,” Nines spits, more venomous than he intended. He doesn’t care. He’s feeling too much right now. Everything is becoming too much.

Markus gives him a sad look. Nines believes it’s the first time he’s ever seen him wearing such an expression.

“I was Elijah’s second creation, after Chloe. I’m assuming you’ve already met both of them?” Markus says, voice level, like he’s explained this a hundred times over.

Nines nods, and they both come to a halt at the head of the stairwell.

“When Elijah cast the spell on this place, I was one of the few who managed to avoid the curse. He says he did it for their own good, but...I’m not so sure about that. I can never figure out what he’s thinking,” Markus tells him, the torchlight flickering across his tough features.

Nines swallows around the lump in his throat, then asks, “Why are you really fighting this battle, Markus?”

He stays quiet, as if mulling over his answer. Downstairs, the fighting continues. Up here, the silence stretches so wide Nines might snap if it isn’t filled. Finally, Markus says, “To kill Amanda.”

Plain and simple.

Nines _knows_ he should say something in return, or at the very least be _surprised_ , but in the end he finds that he isn’t, nor is he disgusted by the idea. He must truly be going mad, being so unfazed by something like this.

(Or perhaps Nines knows the witch deserves it. Knows there is satisfaction in the possibility of her dying. Of her fall.)

“Are you going to bring this castle down?” Nines asks in response, despite everything.

“If that’s what it takes, yes,” Markus replies nonchalantly.

“I thought you mentioned being as nonviolent as possible. That was quite the amount of corpses out there.”

Markus sucks in a breath. “Change of plans. I realized it would be impossible not to have a few casualties. It’s all for the greater good. All for a better future.”

Nines descends down the stairwell first. Wonders if Markus is speaking the truth.

“My people have suffered for too long,” Markus tells him, following from behind. “I know you understand what it means to be caged in like an animal, Nines.”

“Be quiet,” Nines hisses. The throbbing in his temple is back again. “Say something useful, or nothing at all.”

The rest of the walk down is spent in silence.

 

* * *

 

“I’m scared, Kara,” Alice whispers. They’re all huddled together in the attic, as far away as possible from all the commotion and fighting. There is no window to escape to if need be. Though it’s not like they _could_ escape, even if they wanted to. They could hardly move at all.

“I know, Alice. But you have to be brave. It’ll all be over soon, okay?” Kara coos gently, wanting to pat the girl’s head but finding that she doesn’t have the strength to lift her arm. It stays stiffly by her side, white all over. It’s a wonder they can still speak.

“Ralph doesn’t want to die. Oh, no, Ralph doesn’t WANT TO DIE!”

 _“Ralph!”_ Kara says sharply, harsher than she intended to. The stress is eating her alive. “Be calm. You just need to be calm, and everything will be alright.”

A few members from Jericho are keeping watch just outside the door. They’re safe. They’ll be safe here until the curse comes to take them entirely. Already can Kara feel her consciousness slipping as if it was being pulled away from her.

When Markus and the rest of Jericho showed up, a spark of hope lit up in Kara’s chest. But she knew. She knew that there would be no saving them from the inevitable. Not without Elijah.

All Kara wants to know is _why._ Why did he do this to them when all they did was try to _live_? It couldn’t simply be because of Gavin’s behavior. No, Kara is sure there’s something more to it than that. Elijah is smart, cunning. A man like him would gain nothing from doing something so petty.

So what is it does he truly want?


	14. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end of this fic is almost here...tysm for reading :^)

Connor sits in the cold emptiness of his home, listening to the rain pour outside, pelting against the windows. It serves as a good background noise. This way, he can think clearly. Reason with himself.

The clock in the kitchen goes _tik tik tik,_ the wind howls and shakes the trees. Lightning crackles in the storm, making the windows flash white. A burst of thunder comes just five seconds later. His temple throbs with a dull pain, but he pays little attention to it. Connor flicks a thin metal coin to and from his hands, catching it in between his fingers. Back and forth, to and fro.

He recalls the day Amanda pulled his child-self aside. She had grabbed him by the shoulders, looming above him and scowling something fierce. Amanda told the truth of what he and Nines were, that they weren’t humans, but clay dolls. Brought to life with magic.

She made him swear to never tell Nines until the time was right.

 _“This is your duty as the elder brother,”_ Amanda had said, her perfectly painted nails digging into his shoulder. He asked a great deal of questions that evening, few of which Amanda was willing to answer.

 _“Why are you telling me this?”_ Connor had asked her.

Amanda simply grabbed his chin and said, _“Because if you tell him prematurely, he will never believe you.”_

She sent him to bed soon after.

Connor catches the coin in one hand, curls a fist around it. He thinks long and hard, closing his eyes. His temple stops throbbing. The rain and thunder and lightning ceases. In a fleeting moment of silence, Connor makes a choice. His _own_ choice, not Amanda’s.

He pockets the coin and rises from the couch, crossing the living room floor in long strides and entering the kitchen. Connor rips a cloak from its hook near the door and drapes his over his shoulders, opening the door to the backyard.

It’s still pouring rain outside, so he quickly scurries across the mud and into the stables. His horse waits for him, luxurious brown pelt shiny and smooth. Connor presses a warm palm to the horse’s snout, cooing to it softly.

He leads it outside by the reins, opens the gate and climbs on its back. Connor pulls the hood over his head and whips the reins down, and they ride off into the storm. The horse kicks up mud as they go, and the rain is harsh against Connor’s face, soaking his hair even when covered.

He sees the flickering red walls as they approach the border between Detroit and the woods. Connor lowers himself, clutching the reins as he braces for impact. He doesn’t tell his horse to slow down, and they sprint headfirst into the walls—

Which shatter like glass as they fly by, galloping into the woods until they reach the castle.

 

* * *

 

Miraculously, the fighting downstairs has quieted down. Most of Perkins’ men have fallen, their bodies littering the marble floors. Blood pools from nearly every corpse, looking as rich as red wine. Nines steps over one, the dead man’s back completely imbedded with arrows, his face pressed flat against the floor.

Nines no longer shivers at the sight. He doesn’t feel his stomach squirm or his skin itch. He doesn’t find himself feeling anything at all, really. Markus is close behind him, and who knows what’s going through his head. Nines wonders if Markus is used to this kind of thing. Bloodbaths, that is.

They see North pulling an arrow from a man’s neck, blood squirting from the broken artery. Her face is sweaty and caked with blood, her hair a mess. Somehow she still looks beautiful, even while wearing blood that most likely doesn’t belong to her.

North cracks a smile, jutting her hip out. “Look who made it,” she says, tucking a piece of damp hair behind her ear. “Thought the witch wouldn’t let you.”

“I am no child looking to follow his mother’s orders. Though it seems my presence wasn’t needed much,” Nines replies, looking around at all the chaos. He isn’t really sure himself of what he’s supposed to do. Gavin seems to already be lost—the thought nearly brings Nines to his knees right then and there—and he doubts the servants are faring any better. He wonders how much time they have left before the watch strikes nine.

“Where’s Simon?” Markus asks North, stepping up from behind Nines. North jerks her head towards the castle’s doors, cracked wide open and letting the snow and ice coat the ground near it. Markus heads straight for them, intent on finding his fiancé.

Nines watches him, a terrible ache in his chest. He feels so lost, like there’s no reason for him being here. He wasn’t able to bring Gavin to his senses; instead Nines watched him rip a man’s head off, as deserved as it was.

But he couldn’t shake off the look of _fear_ he saw in those feral eyes.

“Hey.”

North sends an elbow into Nines’ shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts.

“What is it?”

She digs something from her pocket, wrapping her fingers around his wrist with her other hand. North drops something cool and light into Nines’ open palm.

“Found it on the ground upstairs. Thought it might be important to you.”

Nines stares down at the necklace, the chiseled sapphire twinkling in the low light. The clasp is broken, meaning it probably tore off Gavin’s neck when he turned. He closed a fist around the necklace, pocketing it for later.

“Thank you,” Nines says, not brave enough to look at her. He feels raw and flayed open, his emotions on display for all to see. The florist wishes North would just _leave_ so he could take a few minutes to cry.

Nines feels her staring, so he looks up to find that she certainly _is_ looking at him with an amused twinkle in her eye.

“So,” she says, “did you see him?”

Nines swallows, dry and painful.

“Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“He...he wasn’t much himself.”

North arches a brow, and Nines feels like he _has_ to tell her when she looks at him like that.

“A beast,” he breathes. “He was more of a beast than human. I don’t think I—I wasn’t able to bring him back. To his senses. He just...pounced on me, and for a second I was sure he’d tear into my throat or—or _something_ but all he did was growl and spit, and I—Gavin, _my_ Gavin, he really just. He—”

Nines stops babbling the moment he feels arms wrap around him. North smells like iron and smoke. He can feel the wet blood soaking through his clothes from her body, but he doesn’t push her away. Just breathes in sharply through his nose. His face is wet.

North squeezes him tightly like he’s a small child in need of _coddling,_ in need of telling he’s _alright_ and that _this will pass_. Nines waits for her to say these things, but all she does is rub her warm hand up and down his spine, her chin propped up on his shoulder.

She’s mumbling something, but it’s too soft for him to hear. Nonetheless, it’s enough for Nines to relax his shoulders, to let his spine drop so that it isn’t so stiff and so straight. He breathes out, feeling like a thousand years old.

North draws herself back, in clasping Nines’ cloak. It falls into a heap on the floor, but the florist feels better without it weighing down on his shoulders. He can breathe a little easier. North sends a gentle fist into his breast, smiling easily, as if they weren’t surrounded by a sea of blood and dead men.

It’s then when Nines realizes how tired she looks, her eyes crinkled from her smile but there is a pained look in them that is so blatantly obvious Nines wonders why she’s even smiling in the first place. North had a small cut on her cheek, dark blue crusted around it and looking so ethereal on her lovely face.

“Are you alright?” Nines asks without really thinking.

North sighs, shoulders dropping. “Yeah. I’m—I’m good. Just...tired. I could really use a beer.”

Blinking, he leans in and pecks her cheek. Soft and sweet. Quick and hesitant.

She presses her fingers to the spot he’d kissed. “What was that for?”

Nines shrugs, feeling so unlike himself. “I’m a bit. Delirious, I suppose. It seemed like a good idea, so. Why not.”

North snorts, shaking her head a little. “You really don’t know a thing about women, do you?”

“I’d say I’m partial to men, so no. Not really.” Nines can feel his face heat up, flushing scarlet.

North laughs this time, closing her eyes and throwing her head back. “Well, it wasn’t bad, so I’ll give you a pass. Most women would shit themselves if they ever got kissed by you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a pretty long list of admirers, Nines.”

He stands there, stunned. Nines knows he’s handsome, sure, but this—this was news.

North rolls her eyes at his exasperated expression, tells him, “I swear, I’ve never met a bigger himbo.”

Before Nines can reply to her witty remark, the caste shakes. But not like before. No, it feels as if someone took the castle in both their cupped hands and _shook_ as hard as they could, as if about to roll a pair of dice. The force of it has both of them spiraling to the floor. Chandeliers jingle from above their heads, and Nines is on his feet before he has time to think properly.

The florist pushes North out of the way before she can get crushed by a giant chandelier. It crashes to the ground, shattered glass pieces flying everywhere. Nines’ heart pounds in his chest, and without knowing he _knows._

Amanda is here.

And she is _angry._

 

* * *

 

Markus stares down at the woman in front of him, just a few paces away. Her skin is dark like ebony, her hair braided into an intricate pattern close to her skull. A pleasing shawl is draped across her figure, her hands politely folded in front of her. On her face is a sharp smile, lips pulled back in a near snarl and illuminated by moonlight. A wolf howls in the distance.

“Markus. How lovely it is to see you again,” Amanda speaks, her voice calm and ever so casual. The snow has stopped falling, as if faltering at her presence.

“Amanda,” Markus says. His skin itches. “I thought you’d come.”

“It seems like you’ve made quite a mess here.” Amanda looks around at the blood-stained snow, at the ashened craters Simon’s explosions created. The witch steps over a body, doesn’t seem to acknowledge it at all.

Markus draws his magic to his fingertips, ushers Simon to get back inside. He doesn’t budge at first, his brows twisting with concern. It’s only when Markus gives him a _look_ does Simon retreat inside, hurriedly closing the castle doors.

Amanda’s toes graze against the first step, and in a split second she is right in front of him. The air whooshes at her speed, both of their clothes fluttering out like flags in the wind. Time seems to slow down as Markus watches Amanda bring her first two fingers together, sharp nails pointed at his body and intending to make him bleed.

Time returns to normal as he dodges the jab, grabbing her wrist and summoning magic into his fist. Markus delivers a punch to her ribs, sending her skidding backwards, but not enough to have her tumble down the staircase.

Amanda presses her lips together disapprovingly, as if talking to a child. “You little fool.”

Markus lowers himself into a fighting stance, glaring at her with all the animosity in the world. Through clenched teeth, he says, “Tonight, you will die.”

And they begin to fight underneath the stars.

Markus doesn’t use his magic much, doesn’t have quite the dexterity Amanda has. She is quick on her feet, delivering what looks to be light jabs but are really terrible blows. Markus can already feel his skin bruising from where she hit him.

He summons a handful of lightning and blasts it at her, though Amanda teleports away, gone like the wind. The blast hits the ground instead, eating up the snow and grass. Markus huffs, sweat dotting along his brow. He feels her materialize right next to him, and Markus lags a bit as he puts his arms up to defend himself.

Amanda kicks him back with a force so great he flies across the snow, becoming buried in it as he falls. The witch calmly strides over to him, her hands clasped in front of her again, perfect and neat as always. Markus’ head spins as he lifts his head to blearily stare up at her.

“I should kill you right now,” Amanda says, looking down at him with a sneer. “That would eliminate a great deal of my problems.”

Markus bits his lip, gathers a fistful of fire and throws it at her. The flames flare out like a fan, seeming to eat away at Amanda’s flesh and bone. She disperses before it can reach her, a single hand held out to quell the fiery beast.

Markus is right in front of her as the flames die out, revels at the sight of the witch’s surprised face. He sends his magicked fist into her jaw, throwing a punch so mighty the earth shakes and the trees shiver. This time, Amanda is the one eating snow.

He doesn’t hesitate to call up another ball of lightning. This one would not miss. It _would_ have landed if not for the piercing shriek that echoes suddenly into the night. Markus hears a heavy flapping of wings that makes him look up at the creature casting an enormous shadow onto the snowy ground.

It hisses and bellows as it lands, seemingly ignoring Markus and diving straight for Amanda, who’s still half-buried in snow. The ground seems to tremble beneath the beast’s wrath; the wind screams and the forest sobs. Amanda lets out a loud grunt as she blasts the beast back with her magic. A roar tears from its throat as its pushed back, then spreads its mighty wings out wide to launch itself into the air.

Amanda stands, enraged, brushing the snow off her clothes. The braids on her head have loosened from the fall, her shawl sprawled against the ground. She looked terrifying, scowling up at the beast like it was a gnat she couldn’t swat away.

But the most terrifying thing about her, Markus thinks, is the pink glow of her eyes.

Amanda turns to look at him, and in an instant, he’s flying backwards at a speed his mind can’t quite comprehend. Markus is thrown all the way to the doors of the castle, his head banging against the metal with such force it makes his ears ring. Something hot and wet dribbles down his neck. His mind is reeling, he can barely see.

Markus watches Amanda raise a hand into the wintry night air, releasing a gust of wind so great he can feel it from where he’s slumped against the door. The beast loses its control in the air and is flung backwards, out of view. Markus blinks, feels pain explode at the back of his head, and then nothing.

 

* * *

 

His head is _pounding._

It’s as if someone stuffed cotton in his ears and dunked his head underwater; Gavin only hears muffled sounds so quiet they might as well be whispers. His vision is obscured as well, his surroundings but a blur, as if he was peering through dirty glass. He sees the familiar outline of the castle, plumes of something dark and dirty rising from the stone. It smells awfully burnt. And bloody.

Gavin can feel himself moving, though he can’t quite _feel_ right and his body isn’t doing what he tells it to. He tastes something warm and irony on his tongue, coating his teeth and lips. There are other bits of...something stuck between his gums, soft and fleshy. He doesn’t dwell on it too much.

But what he _can_ feel very clearly is the bitter cold. He must be outside in the snow—yes, he can feel it sticking to his skin (fur?). Gavin’s head spins while all he can focus on is how terribly cold he is, the snow seeming to seep into his flesh and muscle and bone. He clenches his teeth together, wraps his arms (wings?) around himself to try to keep the warmth in. Black dots spot his vision, and he thinks he’s about to faint.

But then there is a loud crunching in the snow, and every instinct in his body is telling him to get up.

Gavin lifts his large lion head, gazing blearily at the figure who’s drawing closer and closer with each step. He can only make out their clothes and skin—skin dark and smooth like roasted chestnuts. A warning growl rips from his throat without his permission, sounding so vile and inhuman he refuses to believe it was him who made the noise. The figure stops moving, their sweet, rosy scent nearly lulling him to sleep.

The smell becomes an awful tang of bitterness, sends his heart pumping into a gradual crescendo. He has to _get up,_ has to _leave._ This person wasn’t safe. Couldn’t be safe, because Gavin can smell the stench of ozone leaking from her pores, the stench of magic.

He screams at himself to get up, even though no noise leaves his mouth. Every muscle groans in protest, sending dull shots of pain up his spine and down his legs. Everything hurts, but he wills himself up into the air before the figure can hurt him. The night is cold, though Gavin doesn’t quite mind the winter wind hitting his face. He feels moonlight on his skin, almost forgets where he is.

Something tugs on one of his legs and _pulls._

He’s ripped from the air before he can even think, going down down down until he hits the soft snow again. Gavin groans, though it comes out sounding like a snarl. His only warning is the sudden tremble of the trees, and he clumsily rolls over to avoid the blast of magic aimed at him. It kills the snow in an instant, eats it away like magic does all things.

Gavin gets up on wobbly legs, pulls his bloodied lips back and hisses, tail full of poison rattling menacingly above his head. The figure lowers their arm, neatly folding their hands together in front of them. His vision clears, though only slightly, but it’s enough to make out the figure’s face. A woman with thick braids woven around her head and icy eyes stares back at him. She looks so unafraid, _relaxed_ even, despite being in the presence of a beast.

Gavin slinks back into the snow. She looks familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. She looks like a blurred memory or photograph taken so many years ago, and now that he thinks about it her scent is distantly familiar as well. Sharp, spring roses and then trace amounts of something else. Something eerie and tart.

She smells _wrong_.

And then, “I’ve been dreaming of this day for so long.”

Her voice, her tone, the way she speaks sounding so conceited, so _sure_ of herself _—_

Elijah’s teacher.

The realization has him reeling, backpedaling so quickly he nearly falls over. Gavin feels a spike of anger arising from his gut, veins thrumming with newfound animosity. It was _her_ fault, after all. Everything happened because of _her_ and her words that cut into your skin like glass.

He mind may be cloudy, but he’s still managed to keep the memories that matter. His memories with his brother and Tina and Hank and the rest of them. Days spent fooling around and sneaking out to villages in the middle of the night like teenagers. Nights of Tina—or was it Kara?—reading to him in the quiet of the library, running a gentle hand up and down his spine.

Gavin twists his brows. Those memories didn’t seem quite right...no, it must have been Kara. He remembers a glimpse of blue eyes and pale skin. Yes, it must have been her.

He is pulled back to the present when the woman—he recalls her name being “Amy” or “Samantha”—sighs, still staring him down with those bitter eyes.

“Look at you. Nothing but a flimsy beast writhing in the snow, and yet you managed to somehow bewitch my son. I raised him better than that,” Amy or Samantha says, a displeased frown on her lips. Something inside Gavin tugs. Has he met this woman’s son? No, he can’t recall meeting anyone new.

Gavin flares his nostrils. He hates this woman, sure, but he hates liars even more.

He seems to be regaining some more control of his body, as he has enough mobility to circle the woman like a predator would its prey. The bitter wind shakes them both, kissing their cold cheeks and turning them even colder. There is a terse silence, tawny brown pouring into emerald green, and then it happens slowly, yet all at once.

It’s unclear who struck first, but Gavin is flung back and hits the rough bark of the tree trunks that line the edge of the woods. The trees creak and moan, trunks splintering beneath his weight and snapping. A handful of trees go down, embracing the snow. Gavin hops back onto his feet, scans the area to find that dreaded woman.

He finds her on her knees, cradling her arm as blood pours out of a nasty wound on her shoulder. The woman is baring her teeth at him, scowling something fierce and ugly. Gavin nearly laughs in triumph, satisfied to have landed a hit on her.

Crouching down low, he prepares himself for another attack, licking his bloody lips and digging his claws into the icy earth, but then. But then, he hears a voice.

“Gavin!”

Gavin feels another tug in his chest. The voice seems so familiar yet so strange at the same time, and he can taste the distant memories of it on his tongue, but he can’t quite attach it to a name.

A man comes running from the castle doors, and from this distance Gavin can see that his brown hair is a mess, pale skin smudged with grime and blood. He looks so terribly familiar Gavin feels something start to bubble in his chest, and whether it’s absolute delight or fear he doesn’t know. But his veins start to thrum with something new, something much warmer than hate.

Could this man be…?

“Not another step, Richard,” the woman hisses, looking absolutely livid. Her eyes crackle with magic, glowing a mystical pink.

Richard stops just a few paces away from them, his shoulders tense with hesitation. His chest rises and falls with each breath, something small and green dangling from his neck.

“Amanda,” Richard spits, face hardening like stone. So that was her true name; yes, it suits her better than Amy or Samantha. “There is genuinely nothing I want more than to bash your skull in, but I will refrain from doing so until Gavin is safe from your...wickedness.”

Amanda laughs, short and sharp. Even with an injured arm, she looks just as powerful as always.

“Don’t bother. That thing is less than human,” she says, adjusting her shawl. Gavin feels his eye twitch, temper spiking all too high. He’s been waiting too long; if he’s going to tear Amanda’s guts out, it might as well be now.

Gavin thrusts himself into the air, looming over the heads of Amanda and Richard, his bulky body casting a shadow onto the white ground. He lets out a deafening shriek, tucking his wings to his frame as he dives down, maw held wide open to fit Amanda’s head in.

She holds a hand out, magic flaring from her palm so quickly Gavin finds he doesn’t have much time to dodge, and so he’s struck from the sky, hurdling down into the snow for what seems to be the millionth time that night. He doesn’t even acknowledge the icy chill anymore. Someone yells in the background, sounding so worried it arouses an odd sense of guilt in Gavin’s chest. Amanda’s magic is blinding, makes his ears ring. A body is quick to reach his, warm hands splayed out against his fur.

“—avin! Gavin, darling!”

Gavin tears his eyes open, shakes his head free of snow. It goes flying everywhere, landing on Richard’s neck and chin, but the man doesn’t seem to care. His face is twisted with worry, wrinkling the perfect skin between his brows. Gods, does this man look so dreadfully familiar. Richard’s broad shoulders, his fair, freckled complexion, his ocean-filled eyes. Gavin can hardly grasp at any memories associated with this man, but they’re there. Brief and fleeting and gone with the wind.

His gaze lowers to the sparkling gemstone dangling from a thin silver chain clasped to Richard’s neck. Bright green in color, like Gavin’s eyes.

He doesn’t know why, but looking at the necklace makes his eyes water.

“Enough of this!” Amanda shouts, a vein bulging from her neck. “Richard, I swear to the _gods_ , boy, if you don’t move this _instant_ I will strike you so hard you will never get back up again.”

Richard doesn’t move from where he’s crouched down next to Gavin’s hulking, monstrous body, but his shoulders tense and his jaw tightens. He’s thinking, Gavin realizes. Sharp, calculating eyes that maybe know too much. And then he supposes Richard must be someone deeply stupid, because he says:

“Do it, then.”

And there’s a fierceness in his eyes that sends Gavin spiraling, and before he knows it he’s taken Richard by the loose fabric of his shirt and hauled him up into the air, wings beating almost feverishly. The motion pulls a startled gasp from Richard as Gavin flies them to one of the castle’s balconies. He knows they probably can’t escape Amanda’s clutches for good, but here was better than on the ground.

Gavin releases Richard from his hold, watches the man stumble and roll until finally skidding to a stop. Something falls out of his pocket and is sent sliding across the ground at Gavin’s feet. He lowers his head to inspect it. It’s a necklace very similar to the one Richard sports, the gemstone a deep blue instead of bright green but still cut the same and dangling from a silver chain.

The first memory crashes into him like a tidal wave.

They were sitting in one of the castle’s gardens, weaving flowers together to make crowns, blushing like the sentimental fools they are. A few petals got stuck in Gavin’s hair and Richard—no, _Nines_ —reached up to pick them out. They giggled and teased each other like teenagers would, then sat back in the dirt, leaning into the other’s space.

Other echoes of the past flood into him, so quick and overwhelming he has to shut his eyes as the world spins. Nines reading to him every night, calling him _darling_ like Gavin was the most precious thing in the world. Gavin and Nines making a pillow-fort, then having sex in the stupid thing. Gavin taking Nines upstairs to watch the sunset. Them making egg tarts together. Them laying underneath the same covers, loving whispers ghosting the other’s skin, sharing kisses in the dark. Gavin remembers the way Nines’ hand fit so snugly in his own—recalls the way his breaths came and how his voice carried across the room.

But he’s also reminded of the night Nines left, and all the gruesome, lonely days that followed.

Quiet, unsure footsteps reel Gavin back from his inner turmoil. He looks up at Nines’ distressed face, wants to kiss it until the wrinkles smooth over.

“Gavin?” Nines says, his voice so soft Gavin almost mistakes it for snow falling.

And _fuck_ if Gavin almost keens at how sad the florist looks. He doesn’t hesitate to shift back, trading his fur for human skin and his wings for arms. He’s on his knees, completely naked in the harsh winter, but doesn’t find himself shivering.

Gavin reaches down to pick up the discarded necklace, shakily thumbing the jewel before closing a palm around it. He tries not to cry, licks his dry lips.

“You left,” Gavin says simply, quietly. He can’t bear to look at Nines, opting to stare at the ground instead.

Nines lets out a quivering breath, draws closer, though gingerly. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, has his arms held out in front of himself like he wants to reach out.

“I did not mean to,” Nines tells him, choosing to keep his hands by his side. “I will explain everything, so just—”

“That is quite enough!”

Amanda’s voice cuts through the air like an arrow. Gavin whips his head around to face her, goosebumps littering his bare arms. He tries to curl in on himself as much as he is able, face heating as his body is on display for Amanda to see.

“I have had it with you spoiling my plans, Richard! Do _not_ make me force you away,” the woman seethes, her injured arm bloody but not bleeding.

Nines steps in front of Gavin’s naked form in a protective manner, his burning gaze seeming to pour lava into Amanda’s own. “Amanda, _please._ Why are you so fixed on killing him?”

She purses her lips, says, “Move aside, Richard.” Her palms light up with her magic, crackling in the winter air.

They stare each other down as Gavin’s gaze jumps between their faces.

“Nines,” Gavin hisses lowly. “Just...stop. You’re gonna get yourself killed, you fucking moron!”

Nines looks over his shoulder at him, his eyes soft and no longer an icy blue but a bright cerulean. Gavin swears he can see the sky in the florist’s gaze.

“I have already left you once, Gavin,” Nines says, voice thick with emotion. “I would hate to disappoint you yet again.”

Gavin blinks, his jaw dropping. The back of his eyes burn, wet with tears.

“Nines, I—”

Now, there is no good way to put it. One moment he and Nines are having a much needed heart-to-heart, and the next the entire castle shakes on its foundations. The pillars crumble and fall off the edge of the balcony, pieces landing in the snow with a soft thud. Everything shifts to one side as the building collapses, furniture crashing into the windows and splaying shattered glass everywhere. Gavin shields his face away from the assault, voice lodged in his throat.

The wind howls as the snow begins to pick up again, falling from the sky in harsh, angry flurries. Even the moon hides itself behind a screen of clouds, taking the stars with it. Gavin rolls across the balcony floor, manages to dig his nails into the ground to keep himself from falling off. His poor heart just might explode, leaping into his throat every time the castle trembles.

Gavin hastily scans the area, searching for—

“Nines!”

The florist is hanging off the broken stone railing, his long legs dangling above the high ground. There’s a strange blue substance trickling down his cheek. Nines’ grip slips as the castle groans, shaking this way and that, staggers as he catches himself. What the fuck was going on downstairs?

“Fuck, hang on, Nines!” Gavin yells, hoping the florist can hear him over all the commotion. Snow gets into his eyes but he doesn’t care to wipe them away, just grinds his teeth together and transforms.

He’s about to fly over when Nines shouts, “Stay _away,_ Gavin!” His face is twisted with what looks to be annoyance, a vein bulging out of his temple.

Gavin ignores him, flies above Nines to get a better view of what was happening. He nearly loses his mind when he sees Amanda gripping onto Nines’ ankle, her eyes glowing that terrible shade of pink. She seems to be mumbling something under her breath, and Gavin can smell an awful amount of magic pouring out of her.

Nines lets out a pained scream, grinding his teeth together, long fingers wrapped around the railing so tightly his knuckles look white. Whatever Amanda’s doing, she’s fucking hurting him and Gavin can’t think of _shit_ to do—the wind is so loud in his ears and the snow stings as it kisses his face. He’s about to go for it when a man wearing Nines’ face bursts through what’s left of the balcony doors, his cape billowing behind him like a flag.

“Rich!” the man yells, tumbling to his knees when the castle shivers again. His fingers wrap around both of Nines’ wrists, trying to pull him up even as everything around them is falling apart. Amanda doesn’t let him, eyes glowing even brighter as her chants become louder. Nines’ nose is leaking that weird blue shit, his face twisted in pain.

This time, Gavin doesn’t hesitate to swoop down and catch one of Amanda’s legs between his broken-glass teeth, biting deep and hard. Her foul blood fills his mouth as her leg tears away from her body with a wet, sickening snap. Gavin drops the limb as soon as it is able, watching as it falls to the snowy ground.

Amanda shrieks in pain, loud enough to echo throughout the night. Nines violently kicks his legs to free himself of her, spitting a long string of curses when she doesn’t let up, her nails digging into the material of Nines’ pants.

Gavin’s about to go for Amanda’s other leg when another explosion racks through the castle, much more powerful and violent than the ones before it. Their side of the castle implodes, chunks of stone and broken furniture tumbling down the side of the building and crashing into the snow like everything else.

The man wearing Nines’ face screams something that gets lost in all the chaos, but at the same moment Amanda’s grip on Nines finally slackens, her eyes flickering until they no longer sport that magical glow. Gavin feels no remorse watching Amanda claw frantically at the air, mouth open in a silent scream as she falls, falls, falls.

Nines scrambles to lift himself up, the unknown man grabbing him by his forearms to help him. Gavin watches from a distance as the two embrace, and he supposes this man must be Nines’ brother. Tears stream down Nines’ lookalike’s face, big, brown eyes filled with worry. Gavin lets out a breath of relief, shutting his eyes for a second to recollect himself.

Then something bright and quick is launched into the air, lodging itself into the very center of Nines’ back.

Before Gavin can scream, the pocket-watch in the West Wing strikes nine, and everything erupts.


	15. Last Rites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything comes crashing down.

Elijah remembers the first time he’d ever tampered with magic, remembers the way it pulsed through his veins and made him feel powerful. Amanda was not a kind teacher, nor did she ever settle for mediocrity. If he wanted to learn more, he’d have to impress her.

And Elijah did.

Most humans simply can’t withstand the nature of magic, even less so when dealing with its consequences. They go mad or become corrupt, falling into depravity as their hearts blacken with a lust for power, for destruction.

Amanda told Elijah he was a rare case, that nature favored him—that from the very beginning, he was different from the rest. And he believed her, because in time he knew it to be the truth.

Elijah continued to study and practice magic in his youth, watched how he could turn leaves into gold and water into wine. Power sparked at his fingertips, and he loved it. He was able to go beyond the laws of simple nature and bend it to his will. Magic made him stronger, more intelligent.

So much power, and yet he could not mend his relationship with Gavin. His younger brother flinched at the very smell of Elijah’s magic, wouldn’t come near him whenever his palms would glow an electric blue.

The castle became that much emptier.

And the day Elijah was strong enough to breathe life into a clay doll was both his uprising  _ and _ his downfall. He’d unlocked a new secret of magic, was practically a god, but he had also lost his brother, his home. Elijah still isn’t sure if it was worth it.

He watches the castle he grew up in crumble, crashing down into the cold, wet snow. From afar, the whole scene looks so beautiful, like it’s been pulled from a play. Elijah feels nothing as his childhood home becomes nothing but a pile of stone and dust.

The old thing was bound to fall someday.

Years back, when Elijah first placed the curse upon the castle and its inhabitants, he didn’t quite expect it to turn out like this. Nobody was supposed to actually fall for Gavin—that was the curse’s entire point, after all. It was meant to keep people out until he finished preparing.

Brilliant things, these animated dolls are. Almost human, but not nearly enough to be considered alive.

“Elijah,” Chloe says, standing by his side, her face impassive and deadpan as always. The moonlight falls perfectly on her porcelain face. “The spell.”

“Amanda is still alive,” he supplies. “Until she dies, there’s no reason to interfere, my love.”

Chloe’s eyes are unsettling as they watch him, makes his skin crawl and bones shiver. He’ll never admit it, though. “The watch has struck nine.”

“Yes.” The very ringing if it shook his bones.

“Then, it’s time.”

Elijah sighs, shaking his head. Snow sticks to his face, leaving it damp and flushed. “Not yet. The time isn’t quite right,” he tells her, adoring how stubborn she can be sometimes. Truly a work of art, his Chloe is.

“Nines is going to die,” Chloe says, her voice taking a somber turn, surprising him.

Elijah blinks, turning to face her. “How can you tell?”

“I felt it.”

Humming, Elijah looks out at the fallen castle once more. Neither of them missed the bright streak of light that howled through the winter air. He didn’t think Amanda would go so far as to try to kill one of her own sons.

Then again, he supposes all things are disposable to her so long as she gets what she wants.

Elijah ponders in silence for a moment, the gears turning rapidly in his head. What is the best course of action? How could he twist this to his liking? His lip twitches, irritated at the faint smell of smoke and burnt flesh wafting through the air. Elijah is already dreading the clean-up—he’d have to recycle so many bodies, not to mention the waste of blue blood. The substance takes time to make, after all.

A pained scream rings throughout the dark of night, pulling Elijah from his thoughts. Grief doesn’t have a sound, but this would be it. Raw and mangled, the kind of scream to tear at one’s throat like a lion’s paw.

For some reason, Elijah’s heart plummets to his stomach.

It sets him into motion.

 

* * *

 

Nines has never felt such fiercer pain. Not when Amanda sold him off like he was a cheap war prize, or when he got attacked by wolves. This pain is even worse than the kind he felt when he’d been ripped away from Gavin.

Every breath feels like a thousand spears are stabbing him all at once, no matter how shallow he tries to breathe. Nines’ surroundings are bleary and muffled, and the ringing in his ears only seems to get louder. There’s something lodged in his chest that shouldn’t be there, that should never be  _ anywhere _ .

He feels warm and cold at the same time, like his body can’t quite decide on its temperature. Nines can taste a foreign liquid on his tongue, not metallic and warm like blood, but something minerally and chilled. It dribbles down the side of his face.

Nines shivers, and it sends a whole new wave of pain through his body. He thinks he screams, but he isn’t sure. Everything is still so muffled, so blurry. He might be laying on his side, because his neck starts to ache from where it’s bent at an awkward angle. Nines can’t really feel his fingers anymore.

Is he dying?

But then something warm and gentle and  _ alive _ brushes against his arm, and he wants so badly to lean into it, but any kind of movement, no matter how slow or subtle, is agonizing.

“ines—Nines, baby,  _ please!” _

Nines feels like he’s floating, the water around him icy and pulling him under. The temptation to give in is heavy, feels easier than fighting. But his head is still bobbing above the water. It hasn’t taken him yet.

The roaring waters are harsh and unforgiving as the waves slap against his face, shaking his bones and turning his blood to ice. Nines can hear someone shouting in the distance, clings to the voice like it’s his lifeline.

There’s a pressure on his chest, bringing warmth. It seeps through his skin and he drinks it up. It’s familiar, he knows it is, but Nines can hardly form a single thought without the risk of drowning. His arms freeze up, his legs stop kicking. The water swallows him up like he’s nothing, dragging him down to the depths.

Nines holds his breath.

“Rich! Keep...athing...open your…yes!”

Then suddenly, some force reaches down into the watery depths and drags him upwards, his head spinning at the motion of it all. Nines can very blearily see a ray of light piercing through the dark water. The pressure on his chest gets heavier, and the pain explodes. He is pulled from the water.

A strangled gasp rips through his throat, sending him into a coughing fit. Something wet splatters against his cheek. He is no longer drowning in murky, unknown waters, but bleeding out on a cold, snowy balcony of a broken castle.

The agonizing pain comes and goes like waves. It’s a slow, burning pain, like someone is rubbing salt into a fresh wound or peeling the skin away from his body. The kind of pain to make even the bravest soldiers go mad.

Nines peels his eyes open, breathing through his mouth. He has to blink a few times before his vision settles. There’s somebody crouched down in front of him, but at this angle he can only see their lap. He is suddenly very aware of his surroundings, hears the wind howling and the castle moaning. The foreign, earthy smell is back again, and when Nines flicks his gaze down he sees a splatter of blue blood coating the ground near his face.

Something warm and wet hits his cheek from above, sliding down his face and into his mouth. It’s salty on his tongue.

“Don’t go,” Gavin pleads, his face damp with tears, absolute desperation in his voice. He’s trembling all over. “Don’t leave again.”

Nines smells smoke and snow in the air. Hands are at his chest, pressing down hard against a piece of torn fabric. Anything to lessen the blood loss. There’s still something skewering his body, unnatural and too bright for the pain it’s bringing him.

“You’re not helping,” Connor hisses. He must be behind him, where Nines can’t see. “This entire building is going down, and I am  _ not  _ leaving my brother here to die. Get up and help me  _ move _ him!”

“F-fuck you, you piece of shit knockoff! He’s gonna lose m-more blood if we move him!”

Nines feels dread sink into the very marrow of his bones. Not because he’s on the verge of death, but because he’s hurting Gavin  _ again. _ He is in pain because of Nines  _ again.  _ And anyone with a right sense of mind would think him a stupid, love-struck fool to be so selfless in a situation like this.

Without his permission, a wet, choked laugh rolls off his tongue.

The two men above Nines quiet immediately, attention solely on him. “Ridiculous,” he croaks, despite the agony it brings him. “This is all so...ridiculous.”

“Stop talking,” Connor says, increasing the pressure on Nines’ wound, “or you really will die, Brother.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Gavin snarls, and Nines can picture his expression without having to see it. His darling’s face must be twisted and ruddy, glaring deeply at his brother. He laughs again, but it comes out as a strangled sound.

“Gavin,” Nines whispers, lazily sliding his eyes up to meet Gavin’s, who’s lowered his head at the call of his name. The bards sing of moments like this, where one partner is close to dying as the other is forced to watch. Nines has never been a fan of tragedies, but he supposes his own isn’t so bad. He doesn’t know what love is supposed to look like, but he’s sure the glimmering of Gavin’s eyes must be it. 

Nines says nothing after that. Just his lover’s name is enough to distract him from the blood seeping from his wound, creating a pool of dark blue around him. The pain starts to fade away, and his eyelids become heavy. Still, he stares up at Gavin through his lidded eyes and just watches him.

Nines wishes he had the strength to reach up and wipe Gavin’s tears away, to pull him into one last embrace and tell him it’s alright. But it wouldn’t be, because from the very start, they were doomed. They fell in love, but it wasn’t enough to break the curse that bound Gavin and his servants to a terrible fate.

His own tears start to fall, pouring down his face like rain.

“I’m sorry,” Nines croaks, voice cracking. “It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

“Stop it,” Gavin mumbles, sniffling. “Nines, just stop. It’s okay.”

He shakes his head, and the motion sends another ripple of pain down his spine. If he’s going to die, then Gavin deserves to know. It’s the very least he can do. “I never intended to love you. At the start, I was only trying to find a way to leave—”

“What—”

“And perhaps my feelings weren’t genuine then, but know that they are now.” Nines laughs a little, sounding dry despite the rainstorm pouring from his eyes. His breaths become shallow and haggard, feels blue blood flooding his mouth. “Know that I do love you, and I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

Nines mumbles incoherent things then, teetering on the thin line between life and death while desperately clinging to consciousness. The blood loss is making his head spin and his vision blur, it feels like ice is crawling up his spine and trapping his entire self in a harsh shell. Nines thinks he mutters at least a thousand apologies, tells Gavin he loves him a thousand more times.

He sees a magnificent spark of blue before the darkness comes, and he’s consumed by raging waters yet again.

 

* * *

 

“Leave,” Gavin demands shakily, a feral growl on the tip of his tongue. He can’t look anywhere except Nines’ peaceful face. The florist’s eyes are shut and his expression is smooth and calm, splatters of blue liquid dotting his pale skin. 

The glow of the rod imbedded in Nines’ chest illuminates his features, softening the harsh edges of his jaw. Gavin’s heart aches at the sight. His arms are heavy and light at the same time, both hands clutching one of Nines’. It’s cold and limp and Gavin wonders if this is what the end of the world feels like.

Elijah ignores his warning, padding along the frost-covered balcony in quick strides. Nines’ brother looks up from the bleeding body in front of him, his face surprisingly neutral for someone whose brother is dying—or dead. Gavin doesn’t know, doesn’t think he can handle knowing. But looking at Nines right now—he must be. Must already be gone.

“If you touch him, I’ll kill you,” Gavin tells him lowly, voice thick with emotion. The winter chill has turned the tears on his face into frost that bites at his flesh. His eyes ache from crying.

Elijah’s hand stills from where it’s hovering in the air, inches away from Nines’ head. Electric blue eyes flick towards him, as unsettling and cold as they were on the day Elijah left. “If you don’t let me touch him, he’ll die. You don’t want that, do you, Gavin?”

Despite the relief that floods him knowing Nines is still alive, Gavin can’t help but spit, “Fuck you if you think I want your help. You—you goddamn rat  _ bastard! _ Just fuck off like you’ve always done! I hate you, and I wish you never—”

“Help him,” Nines’ brother interrupts, his hands still pressed against the bloody chest. “This idiot can't think straight, so ignore him. But help Rich, please.”

Elijah crouches down, summoning his magic. It flickers like a flame at his fingertips. “That was the plan from the start, no matter what Gavin had to say. And you just forgive me for doing this, Connor, but my brother and I need to have this conversation in private.”

A light at Connor’s temple flashes yellow, and he stands, limbs stiff and mechanical. With a snap of Elijah’s fingers, Connor is gone. And now it’s just the two of them. Gavin is still holding Nines’ hand, refusing to look up at his brother. He grips it tighter when Elijah’s face comes into view.

“You knew he wasn’t human,” his brother states, wrapping a hand around the rod of light piercing Nines’ chest. Gavin’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of it being slowly pulled out, spraying blue blood everywhere. It’s a wonder how Nines hasn’t run out.

He swallows dryly, eyes focused on Nines’s face. He can’t bear to look anywhere else, fearing that if he does, Nines will die and the world will end a second time over. “Yeah,” Gavin bites out, his throat raw. “So what? You gonna laugh at me because I fell in love with something that was  _ made? _ Well, let me fucking tell you that he was more alive than you’ve  _ ever _ been, you piece of shit.”

Elijah sighs, yanking the rod free. Then he’s cutting into Nines’ shirt with two of his fingers, slicing the fabric open cleanly. Gavin watches as Elijah pulls the ruined fabric of the shirt aside, revealing a gaping wound the size of a child’s fist. The skin around it is a shiny white, like it’s been stripped away. Blue blood drips from the edges

Gavin inhales a sharp breath at the sight. His stomach twists with nausea, but he swallows the bile down.

“It certainly  _ is _ surprising. I didn’t think anyone was foolish enough to fall for you.”

He’ll never admit it, but the comment stings. Elijah always knew exactly where to strike, exactly where it hurt the most and exploited it. His jabs aren’t anything new—Gavin’s known them since they were young, so why do they still hurt, after all these years?

“Why’d you do it,” Gavin mumbles, his breaths coming out white in the chilly air. He’s still naked, his sensitive flesh exposed to the cold of winter. But right now, nothing matters except for Nines. He’ll swallow down his embarrassment any day for the florist.

“Many reasons,” Elijah says smoothly. He turns Nines to lay on his back, then presses his palm against the wound. The blue glow of his magic would almost be soothing if they were in any other scenario. Gavin wrinkles his nose. Elijah’s magic has always had a strange smell to it, like something was burned and yet not. It smells fresh, yet rotten. Too many contradictions and not enough logic.

Gavin has never understood magic, and he doubts he ever will.

“Give me a straight answer before I knock your teeth in.”

Elijah hums, seemingly able to talk and concentrate on healing Nines at the same time, wielding magic like it was nothing. “Simply put, to keep Amanda away and to buy me some time. It took more trials than I initially expected to complete the spell—”

“What spell?” Gavin finds the courage to look away from Nines’ pale face. He suppresses the urge to flinch when his eyes come to land on his brother.

“The one I’m going to use to destroy Amanda,” Elijah says, lips stretched into a smile that’s colder than any winter storm Gavin’s ever known. “She’s still alive, and we just can’t have that, can we? Too dangerous to be left living.

“And so I had to keep her away in my absence. I figured she wouldn’t want to come near a castle in which its inhabitants were placed under a curse. After all, what could she do? Amanda’s magic is inferior to my own—”

“You fucked us all to high hell because of that? What the fuck, Eli! You couldn’t have chosen a different spell? One that  _ didn’t  _ make us suffer?” Gavin yells, rage replacing the misery in his gut. Then he connects the dots, feels his stomach plummet to the very soles of his feet. “How much of it was a lie.”

Elijah says nothing, his expression level as he fixes the gaping hole in Nines’ chest.

Gavin curls his red, frost-ridden fingers into fists around Nines’ hand. He hopes the florist doesn’t feel anything from it. His face twists with agony, betrayal, but his shoulders shake from his anger. “How much,” he repeats through clenched teeth.

“Most of it,” Elijah says, finally. “There was no way to lift the curse unless I did it myself. The pocket-watch was only there to signify when the time was right for me to return. You were never going to stay a beast forever, nor were the servants going to stay as stone statues.

“I needed you to stay in the castle no matter what. I gave you horrific features to keep people out, but I clearly failed. And I had a feeling your servants would try to leave to find you potential partners, so I limited their abilities to move. I suppose it was all for nought in the end, though.”

Gavin wants to punch him, to beat him unconscious and throw him over the edge of the balcony. Rage and sorrow thrums through his veins, leaving him an angry, sad mess. His throat feels tight and he finds himself not having anything to say. What  _ could _ he say to that?

“It’s done.” Elijah removes his hands from Nines’ chest, the wound completely gone save for the massive scar that replaces it. The skin has gone back to its normal fair complexion. It’s like the rod of light was never there. “I’ll give you a few vials of thirium for him to drink later. He should be fine after that.”

Then Elijah stands, brushing  his hands together like he’s finished fixing up a broken toy or piece of furniture and not the love of Gavin’s life. “This castle is going to collapse soon. Chloe’s done a good job holding it up, but unless you want to die, I suggest we move.”

Gavin shuts his eyes, bites the inside of his cheek. He can deal with this bastard later. Right now, Nines is the only thing that matters. His bones shift and groan as they’re stretched to fit a new mold, his muscles and joints turning inside out and back again.

Elijah picks Nines’ body off the floor as Gavin unfurls his wings, spanning them out wide. He gives his brother a withering glare that Elijah all but ignores. He disappears with Nines in his arms and a flicker of brilliant blue, and Gavin leaps off the broken balcony just as the castle implodes, sending years of memories crashing into the snowy ground.

 

* * *

 

“Damn, this sucks.”

He snorts from where he’s situated in front of a flowerbed, pulling out weeds and tossing them inside a bucket the contents of which he’ll have to dispose of later. “Who would have thought a couple of flowers would be your worst enemy.”

“Hey, fuck you. I haven’t felt spring in like, seven years. ‘snot my fault my body hates it.”

Nines huffs out a breath at his antics. “This was  _ your  _ idea,” he points out, slipping the dirty gardening gloves off his hands. “At least be able enough to see it through.”

Gavin’s face twists into a half-hearted glare before it scrunches up and he’s sneezing into the crook of his elbow for the umpteenth time today. His nose is red and irritated and his eyes are in no better shape.

“Perhaps we should stop for today. Any longer and you might just keel over,” Nines teases lightly, scooping up the bucket of weeds and crossing their backyard in long strides. Gavin sniffles, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shoulder, elbows deep in dirt and compost.

“But the roses,” he whines, squinting down at the unfinished flowerbed, which has less than half of the roses planted. They still have so much to do.

“The roses can wait. You, however, cannot. Let’s go inside, darling.” Gavin groans at this, but pushes himself off the vibrant grass and wipes his dirty hands onto the leather of his pants. They trot back inside the comfort of their small house, potted plants set onto nearly every surface, some of which have vines that curl and twist and touch the floor.

It’s been a little over a year since that dreadful night at the castle. Nines can hardly remember how it all ended, but one moment he was on the brink of death, and the next he found himself tucked into a warm bed with Gavin at his side, calloused hand on top of his own. 

What he  _ does _ remember is startling at the lack of horns on Gavin’s head. How his pupils were no longer cut into slits, or how his teeth looked to be filed down and flattened. There had been no traces of the curse, like it’d been wiped away completely.

Gavin had to grip his shaky shoulders to settle him, told him very slowly what had happened and where they were. Nines tried to cling onto every word, but he was overwhelmed with the sight of Gavin, healthy and well, right in front of him. He had cut him off and pulled him into a loving embrace, held onto him with no intention of ever letting go.

Nines swears to never let him go.

From there started a long series of restless nights where Nines twisted and turned in the darkness, nightmares coming to consume him as he chased sleep. He still feels the phantom pain of the injury even now, the agonizing throb at his chest that comes and goes as it pleases. Gavin is always there to hold him, to coo into his ear and tell him it’s all over, that the worst is behind them now.

The ugly scar on his chest serves as a dull reminder of everything that happened to them. It brings out a surprising insecurity in Nines, as he often tries to hide it away from Gavin, as if he would love him less if he sees it. But one night Gavin became fed up with his hiding his scar and pressed a tender kiss atop the ruined, raised flesh.

Nines cried as Gavin took him that night, arms wrapped around the thick of his neck as a familiar coil of heat pooled in his groin. Gavin called him  _ beautiful  _ and  _ gorgeous  _ at least a hundred times, etched the words into his head so he would never forget.

And now they stand side-by-side at their kitchen sink, washing away the grime beneath their fingernails and making small talk. Something light tickles Nines’ calf, and his lips twitch into a faint smile as he looks down at the furry creature who’s wrapped itself around his leg. 

Patchy—Gavin named her, not him—meows softly from where she’s situated around Nines’ legs, rubbing her little face into the side of his calf. Nines quickly wipes his hands dry and scoops her up, bringing Patchy to his chest so he can coo at her.

“Hello, little one,” he purrs, her soft fur tickling his jaw. Gavin scoffs from beside him, peeking down Nines’ shoulder at Patchy, who he insists has a deep hatred for him. Nines tells Gavin it’s because he gave her such an absurd, uncreative name.

“Hey, why don’t you ditch the furball and cuddle  _ me _ instead, babe?” he whines, his chin propped up on Nines’ shoulder, stubble scratching the florist’s skin through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Nines smirks at him, pressing a kiss to the top of Patchy’s head just to spite him. Gavin grumbles when Nines simply shakes his head and moves away from him, padding into their living room where he settles down on the plush couch, Paychy in his arms. “If you want to cuddle with me, you’ll have to ask her for permission,” Nines says, sending Gavin a teasing look when he plops down on the other side of the couch, looking irritated.

“She hates my guts.”

“Then I suppose you will have to beg her.”

Gavin rolls his eyes, crossing his taut arms over his chest and sitting back. He sends a glare over at Patchy, who simply mewls at his displeasure. Sometimes Nines thinks she must know how much she irritates Gavin—in fact, she might just do it on purpose.

“I’m not begging a damn  _ cat, _ ” Gavin spits, stubbornly.

“Oh? You won’t fight for my love, darling?” Nines says lightly, raising a brow. “That’s very unlike you.”

“Don’t need to; I know I’m your favorite.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Really, now? Who ever said such a silly thing?”

“Babe!” Gavin whines.

Nines laughs a little, however faintly he can, and sets Patchy down on the ground. She scurries away almost immediately, men forgotten as something grabs her attention from across the room. Nines pulls a pouting Gavin into his arms, repositions himself so that he’s laying down with his darling on top of him, a firm weight on his chest.

Gavin buries his face into the crook of Nines’ neck, nose poking his pulse point. The florist wonders if Gavin can feel just how hard his heart is beating as he wraps his arms tighter around Gavin’s frame, running his fingers up and down his spine with one hand.

Nines sighs into Gavin’s dark hair, shoulders relaxing, tension coming undone. He closes his eyes and just  _ feels _ , doesn’t stop trailing his fingertips along the curve of his darling’s back. They bought a new bottle of shampoo, something sweet and flowery, but not irritatingly so. He can smell it in the threads of Gavin’s hair, and it soothes him.

He is by no means a light person, but Nines will gladly bear his weight even if it’s a little hard to breathe. Gavin breathes out through his nose, and it tickles the sensitive skin on Nines’ neck, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. Gavin presses a tender kiss to the same spot, and Nines relishes in the way his rough stubble scratches at his skin.

“Love you,” Gavin mumbles sleepily, and Nines can picture his eyes drooping with fatigue. They’ve gotten up early to tend to the new garden in the back, and worked on it for hours. Good progress was made, but they are far from done. Nines opens his eyes and looks down his nose at Gavin’s peaceful face, sleep having taken him.

He can cry at how full his heart feels.

The florist lets him sleep even though it’s too early in the afternoon to do so. He figures it’ll be fine to take a short nap—they’ve earned it, after all their hard work in the garden. Nines kisses the top of Gavin’s head, once, twice, and pulls him closer to his scarred chest.

He was worried at first, after the night at the castle. He isn’t a real, breathing person—he can hardly call himself a man. Nines feared Gavin wouldn’t look at him the same, would turn his lip up in disgust at the revelation. But all his darling did was shrug his shoulders and mutter, “You seem more alive to me than most humans,” and it sent Nines into a terrible blushing fit when Gavin pulled down his pants and put his mouth on—

He clears his throat, staring up at the ceiling as his cheeks flush crimson. Nines tries to drive his thoughts elsewhere, thinking of random things to will his stirring cock down. Gods, Gavin has him wrapped around his little finger, doesn’t he? He can send Nines into a heated mess while asleep, without having done anything to the florist.

“You’re gross, babe” Gavin says suddenly, not sounding tired at all. Nines can feel his smile against his skin. He purses his lips, his face flushing even harder now.

Huffing, he says, “So you  _ were _ faking it. I should have guessed.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, my dear Nines. I know you think I’m sexy.”

Nines pushes him off the couch, and he flails his arms, clawing at the empty air as he rolls and ultimately lands on the carpeted floor.

“Again, who told you such lies?” Nines chastises, staring down at the heap of limbs with an unamused look on his face.

Gavin laughs, deep and genuine, and rolls onto his back. He turns his head, grinning at Nines like he’s hung the sun in the sky. And damn if Nines wouldn’t do it if Gavin ever asked. He’ll hang the moon and all the other stars up for him; Gavin only has to say the word to set him into motion.

Nines’ flustered look turns into something much fonder as he meets Gavin’s eyes, crinkled from his smile. Then an arm shoots up and grabs him by the shoulder, and Nines is tumbling to the ground alongside Gavin, who’s laughing so hard there are tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Nines can’t pretend to be angry at him when he looks like that. Instead, he rolls on top of Gavin and kisses him, kisses him like they’ve never done this before, like tomorrow will be their last. Gavin takes it all willingly, lovingly, wrapping his arms around Nines’ broad shoulders and sighs into his mouth.

“I love you so much.”

Nines doesn’t know which one of them says it, because the moment it’s in the space between them, Gavin grabs the back of his head and pulls him down, kissing him almost feverishly.

And Nines supposes it doesn’t matter, because there will be so many more moments like this that they will share together, where it’s whispered into the air only to be chased away by a barrage of tender touches and loving kisses.

Perhaps tragedies  _ can _ have happy endings, despite theirs blooming from a place of wrath and tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and it’s done. thank you so much for reading! i hope the ending wasn’t too bad and is somewhat satisfactory! :^)


End file.
